


Big Damn Heroes

by Yeah_JSmith



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Because it's fun, Comedy, Crime Crew, F/M, Gen, HAVING A GOOD TIME, Slick Nick, awesome Finnick, badass Judy, crossover with Sly Cooper, even with all the fantastic racism, fluffy friendship, genius Jack, like he could sell you your own eyeteeth, obligatory shock collar AU, slick beyond belief, stealing everything, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2018-10-11 22:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 102,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10475442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeah_JSmith/pseuds/Yeah_JSmith
Summary: Ace grifter Nick Wilde tries to hit the Natural History Museum. Unfortunately, his target is snatched right from under his nose by a professional sneak thief. If only that were the end of it...(In which Judy Hopps stars as a master thief, Nick Wilde plays his usual role as Nick Wilde, and if they're lucky, they'll bust open the biggest conspiracy since Operation Squawk of '72.)





	1. The Spark Job

**Author's Note:**

> None of the Sly Cooper characters actually show up in this, but their presence in the past definitely has an effect on character development. 
> 
> A note: because I'm blending the movie with the original concepts, Madge Honey was about to be an infectious diseases physician, but now she’s a “hacker.” Before you get on me about the skillset, let me remind you that it’s weird that most media describes hacking as some kind of magical ninja skill. It doesn’t take long to learn. Honey was forced out of medicine, turned to computers, and gained proficiency, like almost anyone could do. You could do it. You should do it. Do I recommend you take your skills and apply them illegally? No. No, I do not. Knowing how to do stuff and being a criminal are vastly different things, and you will get caught. Also it’s illegal, so there’s that.

 

 

“Have the van ready,” Nick whispers, touching the bud in his ear. It’s not that he needs to; they upgraded after the last job, and their whispertech uses vibrations to do...well, he’s not very tech savvy, but it has something to do with bones. Or neuron encoding. Or something else. If it works, who cares?

Tonight is going to be the crowning achievement of his six-year-long career as a bona fide bad guy. He’s been talking his way into (and out of) various deals and business ventures since he was twelve, but for the past six years, he’s been focused on actively breaking the law. After all, if the law is going to screw him over, why should he bother following it? Why should the rich bastards in power get off scot-free while he and his fellows are left to suffer? They shouldn’t.

Before the TAME Act, Nick only skated the line; he never outright crossed it. These days, there’s a danger involved with the hustle that was missing when he was (relatively) law-abiding.

“You say that one more time,” Finnick replies from the van, “and I swear on Abagnale’s ruff, Nick, I will leave your sorry tail here.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, okay, I’m just checking over everything. Got some time to kill before the gala.”

“I ain’t waltzing with you again, so stay where you are and look pretty.”

“I always look pretty. It’s my calling in life. I could have been a model for Preyda, but alas, I have sharp teeth and polish makes my claws jam.”

“No it doesn’t.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Nick agrees, “but that would be funny.”

Tonight’s gala has been planned for two months now, and he’s got the perfect entry. Normally, predators aren’t allowed in places like this, but there are always exceptions. All he and Finnick needed to do was find someone desperate enough to hire an escort with sharp teeth. There are always outliers; fang-chasers or adrenaline junkies who believe the collars won’t do much.

(Nick has lived with the damn thing. He knows it works. That’s kind of the point of tonight’s job.)

“Shut your hole. I see Lillian. She’s parking on the south side, so you want to meet her from the east. And for fuck’s sake, tighten your tie.”

Nick looks around. The van is in the south parking lot, so how could Finnick possibly know he loosened his tie? “What makes you think-”

“You’re good, but you’re still the guy I mentored. _But Mama, I wanna wear a tie like Slash!_ Lillian’s gonna be looking for her _escort,_ and you have no idea how many tailpipes I had to lick to get you in, so just...sell the part, okay?”

“I got this, don’t worry. This is what I do. Just sit back and enjoy the show.” Nick takes a deep breath, pulls on a smile, and rounds the corner just in time to ‘accidentally’ bump into Lillian Brown, the Tasmammalian ambassador. Rumor has it the hare is a fang-chaser, which seems to be the case, considering she was willing to alienate herself from the ruling elite of Zootopia just to get a pretty date to the gala. She requested a red fox, and, well, Nick’s only too willing to oblige.

“Oh, my apologies, Madam,” he says, catching her by the paw and the hip, palming her cell phone just for the hell of it. “I’ve made a right mess of things, haven’t I? Please, allow me to – say, you’re Lillian Brown, aren’t you?”

“Oh, my, you must be my date. It’s Robin, right?”

Nick is going to kill Finnick. Then, he’s going to bring the little shit back to life so he can kill him better. In the meantime, the con’s going decently. “Yes, that’s me. If I may say so, Madam, you are stunning.”

“You don’t have to compliment me, you know. I prepaid,” she says with some humor.

“No, really,” he tells her sincerely. From an objective standpoint, she is rather gorgeous, cerulean blue silk striking against her light brown fur, light gray eyes suited more to laughing than anything else. Nick has never considered other mammals as much more than mealtickets in a long time, and Lillian is no different, but he has _eyes._ “If I knew you better, I might kiss your paw, but I would never presume. Shall we, Ms. Brown?”

“Yes, we shall,” she replies, putting her paw in the crook of his arm, “and you ought to call me Lillian.”

* * *

The Natural History Museum looks a lot more splendorous than it used to. When Nick was in grade school, he came here on a field trip, and it looked like a regular museum; now, it looks more like a palace, shiny gold fixtures and ultra-clear display cases accentuating the centerpiece statue. With partygoers milling about drinking glasses of wine or sunflower ale, it can hardly be called a museum. Then again, the most recent additions tell the tale of predators going “savage,” and the back room houses the worst display of them all. Nick finds it telling that it’s not out on display tonight, where the ambassador and other representatives might see.

It’s nine o’clock after the boring speech by Mayor Gooseberry – while news of her decision not to run for re-election is interesting, it’s not really relevant to his life; he’ll watch the feed stream later when he’s not on the job – when the power cuts for a few seconds. It’s not enough to worry the increasingly-sloshed partygoers, but it sets Nick’s fur to bristling. He doesn’t like possible complications.

After several moments of tense waiting, nothing bad happens. Nick doesn’t believe in accidents, but he’ll worry about it after the job is over.

Lillian gasps. “Robin, you have a collar!”

Nick reaches up and touches the faded green light under the pressed collar of his dress shirt, a staple of his life for six years now. She must have seen the feeble blinking during the brief blackout. When Gooseberry won the election against Lionheart, life for animals with sharp teeth and claws went downhill dramatically. Being omnivorous, foxes had gone mostly vegetarian after the First Agreements, but that didn’t matter; the state of your paws and the shape of your teeth determined what class you belonged to. Technically, _pigs_ should have been collared, but it had been tradition for so long to cut piglets’ teeth that nobody remembered when protocols were implemented how a group of pigs could eat a whole moose, bones and all.

The collar should be a nuisance, but it comes in handy occasionally. Certain prey vendors – the PC term is _herbivore,_ now, due to the power implications, but Nick only uses it out loud, because respect has to be earned – who might otherwise have ignored him or insulted him based on his specific species tend to look at him as just another predator. The real suckers give out free food to _poor single fathers_ who, because of widespread prejudice, are down on their luck. He hardly notices it anymore; it’s been so long since he felt anything at all that it never actually goes off unless he spoofs it for attention. Finnick fools his sensors by keeping himself in a constant state of anger, but Nick uses his apathy as a shield.

“Yes, I do,” he replies with forced cheer. The problem is, not feeling the bad things means not feeling the good things either. Cheer is always forced.

“But I specifically requested that you _not_ have one! I was assured by your mayor that I could have a nice time with someone well-spoken and uncollared.”

He forces his muzzle to do the thing that makes him look sad and just a tidge pathetic. “That’s illegal, Madam. I could’ve gotten arrested just walking here without one. Ah, to be fair to our _esteemed_ Mayor Gooseberry, she most likely assumed you meant an herbivore. Dalliances across class lines are unheard of. And she doesn’t have a high opinion of carnivore literacy rates. I think the poor dear must have gone through some kind of traumatic event.”

She clenches her paw, an expression of genuine anger beginning to form. “I told my husband he was wrong. There was no way that Zootopia, once the bastion of civility and freedom, could be this backward. I convinced myself the collars were, maybe, a movement to get away from imprisoning criminals and instead allowing wrongdoers to be functioning, if monitored, members of society. But I was wrong. Prey mammals perpetrate most of the violence in this territory and remain free. This place is...what they have done to you is despicable, and they have tried to hide the worst of it from us, the outsiders.”

“It’s not so bad,” he soothes, and the lie sounds pretty good, in his opinion. One of the perks of never feeling anything, and thereby faking everything, is that he can lie with impunity. When everything’s a lie, nothing is. “Come on, wouldn’t you like to dance?”

“No, I would not.” She looks him up and down, nods, and takes his paw. “I’d actually like for you to sit down with me for a moment and explain how you live. To be honest, Robin, my reasons for being upset are less than altruistic; I feel for you, but I’m also worried about the implications for my own country. When Animalia sneezes, the world catches a cold, and I have heard whispers about country-wide legislation of this collar program. My _husband_ is a fox, just like you. There is an alarming trend of traditionalism among the older generations worldwide, and younger mammals don’t have as many children on average, so I’m afraid things will get worse before they get better.”

Nick follows her to a table in a relatively quiet corner and sits next to her, close enough to make it feel intimate, far enough away to keep it respectable. The truth is, he wants to hate her a little bit, and he probably would, were he capable. So she married a fox. How progressive of her. So she’s worried about global trends. How bleeding-heart of her. But she has the assurance of freedom and respect regardless of what happens, and that...makes her words seem a little hollow. It’s easy to speak out when you’re not in danger. Free speech is only free among prey here.

Then again, she does seem truly sympathetic, rather than looking to assuage her own guilt. Prey in Zootopia, and the mammals in Animalia at large, are complicit in the oppression of Zootopia's predator class every time they look away, every time they decide that speaking out is _not_ the right thing to do, every time they convince themselves it’s for the best. Not _that_ bad. Preds are _dangerous._

(And he thinks about the wolf who nearly killed him during a regression, thinks that predators  _are_ dangerous.)

“If I may, Madam-”

“Lillian,” she encourages.

“Lillian.” He smiles gently at her. “Why did you hire me tonight? You speak of your husband fondly.”

“I get lonely sometimes. I didn’t...make some kind of faux pas, hiring an escort, did I? I assumed that it would mean hiring a date, someone to dance and speak with, not someone to share a bed with.”

“No, you’re correct about the definition,” he tells her, and breathes a little easier. He might want to hate her, but she’s irritatingly tolerable, and using her after sleeping with her might actually give him the first stirrings of guilt he’ll have felt in almost twenty years. “That’s what escort services are, but it’s an open secret that most of us have the obligation to sleep with our clients. It’s not part of the package, but if we want good ratings…”

He lets the implication hang between them.

“I love James dearly, and I would not take you to bed without introducing you first,” she promises him, which Nick finds to be a little weird.

“Introducing us? Ah, forgive me if this sounds ignorant, but is that a Tasmammalian culture thing, or am I just missing something?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not cultural.” She nods and pats his thigh. “James, bless him, has a low libido, so we have something of an open relationship. I like sex, and he likes seeing me happy. Some of my associates are polyamorous, but it’s only about sex for me, not intimacy. I introduce all of my potential partners to James for transparency purposes. Forgive _me_ my ignorance, but how do you reconcile your occupation with your biological imperative to pair-bond for life? It was difficult enough for me, and I already have a partner.”

“We’ve...evolved,” he explains awkwardly, trying to keep it professional despite the unexpectedly intimate turn of the conversation. “Before the Awakening, pair-bonding was a sexual and intimate thing, but as mammals developed complex thinking and higher reasoning skills, we also developed the ability to separate the two. It’s true that reds are known for being bad at that, especially here in the city, but for some of us...until that emotional bond forms, sex is just another physical activity, like exercising or doing math.”

Nick is still happily a virgin, which is the other reason he’s glad she didn’t hire him for sex. This job is big enough that he would do whatever is necessary, but this is much preferred. The last thing he wants is an inconvenient cocktail of oxytocin and vasopressin making him _attached_ to the ambassador, and it’s not like he can predict his own hormonal reactions to a situation he’s never experienced.

“How anyone could think you’re not well-spoken is beyond me,” she tells him. “Now, please, explain to me how this collaring system works.”

“The collars act as emotional caps,” he explains, essentially quoting the speech Gooseberry gave six years prior. “Carnivorous mammals historically hunted and ate other mammals, and this puts herbivores like yourself at risk. Six years ago, there were some equal rights protests that got...violent. A tiger and a wolf went through some kind of primitive regression and tore through the crowd, maiming fifteen and killing five, before they were shot and killed. Shortly after that, after four more carnivores experienced the same phenomenon, the Administration decided it would be best to implement protocols that would stop that from happening to anyone else. That is why our borders were closed until recently; we are still trying to determine the source of the disease, and the collars do nothing to prevent the spread of it, only act as protective measures for the mammals around us. Any time the sensors detect an alarming increase in heart rate in conjunction with the anger hormones, a shock is released, the intensity of which increases in direct proportion to the increase in aggression. It’s actually a fascinating piece of equipment, objectively. They’ve made it smarter, able to differentiate between anger and pain, and it adjusts to resting heart rates with...minimal discomfort, and the newer models adjust with puberty. It seems almost unbelievable.”

“Yes, it certainly does,” Lillian says grimly. _“You_ don’t believe the propaganda, do you?”

Nick hesitates on purposes and slides his eyes back and forth, as though searching for eavesdroppers, before shaking his head. “I do think regressions are dangerous. It helps to look at it through that lens. Nobody from the CDC investigated the regressions as some kind of illness, which is what most Zootopians think it was. A pathogen, maybe, that a rare few are susceptible to. Herbivores outnumber us ten to one, though, so they decided to implement a quarantine rather than put outsiders at risk. Mammals were scared. The TAME Act was an easier fix than trying to catch and study a primitive carnivore while they are raging. And if some of us are shocked to death, well, at least it’s only one death instead of several.”

“That’s a compassionate way to look at it, but I think your compassion is misplaced.” She leans in close, and suddenly, he has the crazy thought that he’s not sure who’s conning whom. She knows the intimate-but-not game as well as he does, and she’s playing it with ease. “Sometimes a little righteous fury is called for.”

“Not if I don’t want to get zapped. It’s called _electric burns,_ Sweetheart.” Lillian recoils and he winces, perhaps a tad too dramatically. “My apologies. That was rude of me.”

“No, no, sometimes my idealism gets in the way of my common sense. Electric shock is an academic exercise for me, not my reality. I’m the one who should apologize. It occurs to me that I’m probably making you uncomfortable. I just...want a narrative I can give to the Prime Minister that will be damaging enough that our administration will not follow Animalia’s example.”

“I can’t give you a dissenting narrative out in the open, so I suppose you’re out of luck.”

“Well...we could go back to my room at the Embassy,” she suggests. “It’s much cozier there, and my staff made sure to neutralize any bugs that might have been planted before I arrived.”

He had originally planned to get into her room through promises of physical intimacy, but this is better. Not only is it her idea, but he won’t have to do anything illegal to get access to her room. He nods, pretending shyness. “I think I’d like that, Madam. Lillian, I mean.”

“Then,” she says, brightening, “you’d better come with me. Hold my paw. It’ll make them less likely to be rude.”

He highly doubts that, but he does as she asked. After all, prey never let him get this close.

* * *

He doesn’t feel guilty about the sedative in her drink, but Nick positions her comfortably on her bed anyway, because she was courteous enough to him that he might as well return the favor. The only reason he needed access to her room in the first place is that high-ranked officials, such as foreign ambassadors with diplomatic immunity, have skeleton keys for “intimate visitors” stashed in their rooms. The collars that could be theoretically issued to predator representatives from foreign nations are dummy collars, fitted with blinking lights but no capacitors, meant to keep the public feeling safe. Nick, personally, thinks that there is something inherently bizarre about allowing foreign predators to risk infection from the regression disease but not allowing actual citizens to go uncollared, but he understands why they do it. The whole thing is about appeasement.

In other words, mammals are stupid. Business as usual.

Now fitted with the dummy collar instead of the real one which he’s stashed in his pocket, Nick places his parting note on the side table, where it will be easily read:

_Lillian,_

_Thank you for a wonderful evening. I appreciate your taking the time to understand the situation here, and I am very grateful for the chance to socialize with such an open-minded mammal. I didn’t want to wake you from such a peaceful-looking sleep, but I needed to get home to my nephew._

_Again, you have my thanks._

_Robin_

He leaves her there, indeed looking very peaceful in her sleep, and begins the short walk back to the museum. There are sensors in place that pick up on collar capacitors, so he can’t break into the museum wearing a real one, but he can leave the real one under some shrubs. If he gets caught, it’ll be easy enough to explain that his must have simply malfunctioned; doing time for attempted burglary is much less without the additional charge of unauthorized removal of a TAME collar, which was the entire point of tonight’s little charade.

Well, that and the neutralizer he dropped by the door on the way out. A short burst will disable the door security for thirty seconds, more than long enough for him to get in undetected. After casing the place for weeks, he and Finnick realized that sometimes the easiest way to gain access is just to unlock the front door.

“Okay, I’m at the door,” he whispers, tying a dark fabric mask around the lower half of his face to obscure his features.

“Fuckin’ took you long enough,” Finnick grouses in his ear. “If I had to listen to you schmooze any more I mighta slit my own throat just to escape, ya sleazebag.”

“I am a consummate professional. She was eating off of my pawpads. Not my fault I’m so irresistible. Now send the pulse.”

“All right...done, you have thirty seconds. Twenty-eight, twenty-seven-”

Nick tunes out Finnick’s counting as he picks the lock and enters the building, keeping his mental map firmly in place. Earlier, when he was talking to the ambassador, he noticed several cameras and mapped out their fields of perception. His black suit helps him blend into the shadows easily enough, but every bit of safety counts. Sneaking around the corner, he prepares to enter the showroom, but pauses as he hears a noise.

Scentblock is powerful, and he uses it enough to know that it works on all sorts of mammals, but now that he’s looking for it, he wishes it were a little less effective. He can’t tell what kind of mammal is in the showroom, but since the security is all digital these days, he can be certain it’s not a security guard.

Night vision serves him well. He peers around the corner to find...well, _odd_ doesn’t do the sight justice. It’s a small mammal hanging over the glass case from some kind of cable, carefully replacing his target with some kind of paper folded into the shape of a...is that a raccoon head?

“Stop,” he hisses, pitching his voice lower than it usually is, and the mammal sighs heavily.

“You can come out,” they say loudly. He’s pretty sure it’s a female voice. “We disabled the cameras and noise receptors in this room. Just don’t go near the pressure sensors around the display case and you should be fine. Why are you here?”

“For the thing you’re holding,” he replies tightly, stepping closer, “and I’m not letting you leave with it.”

She examines the object. It’s the first collar, displayed in the Natural History Museum like a point of pride rather than evidence of system failure. “What do you want with an extra collar?”

“That’s none of your business...hey, you’re a bunny. What do _you_ want with a collar?” He can feel a real snarl coming on, something that hasn’t happened in longer than he can remember. “Got a filthy pred stashed in your cellar you want to turn over to the cops?”

“Wow, you have quite the imagination.” She laughs, and the sound bristles his tail. “I’ll tell you if you’ll tell me – _no,_ Jack, I’m not...dang it! Thanks a lot, you just cost me precious time. Sorry, Sexy, but you’re gonna have to find me if you want this after we’re done with it.”

“But who are-” The stranger presses a button and allows the harness to bring her back up to a hole in the ceiling. She moves a tile back into place, and it’s like she was never there. Lamely, he finishes, “-you?”

“You just got served, Wilde,” says Finnick irritably. “Get out of there before someone finds you. We’ll figure out who that was later.”

Nick brings out Lillian’s phone to photograph the paper raccoon and does as Finnick suggested. There’s no point in hanging around, unless he wants to try to convince the bigots at the ZPD – while wearing a dummy collar – that a _bunny_ stole the museum’s pride and joy.

That thief is going _down._

* * *

Ruth Wilde is blind as a bat and twice as likely to beat you about the head, but she taught Nick everything he knows about the confidence game, so out of respect for the past, he still lives with her and takes care of her like a truly loving son would. He would be better off without the dead weight, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made.

At least he and Finnick have a relatively safe home base.

“Run a search for bunnies living in Zootopia,” he tells his partner. Finnick would make a decent thief, but he prefers to be an accessory so that he’ll get a lesser sentence ‘when’ they get caught. He’s much more cynical than Nick has ever managed to be, probably because he can still feel things outside of the joy of the job.

“You know that’s got to be hundreds, and I ain’t much of a hacker,” grumbles Finnick, but he begins typing anyway.

Nick eyes the real collar, sitting on the desk. He really can’t stand the thing. It’s a reminder of everything that went wrong. The riots, the death of his father, the times prey ganged up on him and kicked him into sparking until the software update fixed the deciphering issue. The problem with academic anger is that he can’t _quite_ bring himself to care. The benefit is that he can take a deep breath and put on the real one without sparking in anger.

“Why did you even want the collar, Nicholas,” asks Ruth. He can’t think of her as ‘Mom’ anymore, not after his teen years, but they’ll get there. Maybe.

“It’d be worth at least a million bucks to the right mammals. There are plenty of underground outfits who want to reverse engineer that thing and they’re willing to pay through the nose to get their paws on it.” He shrugs, even though she won’t see it. “The next Candileja Market is in a few weeks. If we don’t find this thing before then, we’ll have to withdraw.”

“Well, why don’t you get that Bentley fellow to hock it for you when you find it?”

“He’s missing, Ma,” Nick replies, feeling weariness creep up on him. “Presumed dead by everyone who’s anyone. We haven’t found an obit, but who would have risked writing one?”

“Huh,” she says, blinking foggily in his general direction. “What a shame. He was decent, for prey.”

“Try narrowing your search to rabbits who dropped off the map within the past...eight years or so,” he suggests, ignoring her statement. “Obituaries can be wrong. Check missing mammals cases. All of that stuff is public record.”

After a few moments, Finnick tells him, “I’ve got two Leapyears, Jenny and Melissa, died of...poisoning? Weird. Probably not them, the Leapyears are prey supremacists. Judy Hopps, missing mammals case filed by – holy shit, Dawn Bellwether, probably not her. Jack Savage, reported missing around the same time by his host family, the Hoofstadts, Melody O’Ha-”

“Go back. The bunny at the museum talked to a Jack on a comm just like ours. If I were to guess, that’d be Jack Savage. Thieves like the one I saw don’t keep up normal lives; they just disappear.”

“That’s...a fair assessment. We can start looking for him. I’ll set an SE alarm. In the meantime, let’s get that photo off the phone you stole and ditch the device.”

The photo shows the well-made paper raccoon head. The paper itself is thick and the same shade of blue the bunny from the Natural History Museum was probably wearing. He wishes he could get his paws on the real thing, but he’s not dumb enough to break into the ZPD archives, where it no doubt already is, just to steal origami. No matter _if_ it belongs to that...that…

“Cool ya jets, Wilde,” advises Finnick. “Yer already yellow.”

“She just _stole it,”_ he seethes, heedless of the increase in the blinking speed on his collar.

“You was gonna steal it.”

“Yeah, but she got there first. She stole it from _me._ There’s a difference.”

“Ya gonna calm down or should I get some popcorn for when you start sparkin’ on us? It’s always funnier when it happens to you.”

“You’re a dick, Finn.” He takes a breath, holds it, and lets it out slowly. “Okay. Night wasn’t a total loss. We got a dummy _and_ a skeleton key, we have a picture of her stupid little calling card, and we have the name of her accomplice. Jack Savage. I mean, realistically, how dangerous can a couple of bunnies be?”

* * *

“Not on your _life,”_ Honey growls, and slams the door in his face.

Nick blinks at the printed photograph – the phone is already in pieces and sold to three different parts dealers – and leans against the doorframe, prepared to haggle. “Honey, Darling, Sweetheart. Light of my life. It’s one tiny little favor, just a few keystrokes.”

“It’s a Cooper card,” she retorts from the other side of the door. “No price in the world would make me go up against _that_ kind of security.”

“Honey. It’s about the job. _The_ job. The one we-”

“Shut your hole.” The door wrenches open and Nick finds himself hauled inside by the scruff of his neck. All things considered, this is going well. He hasn’t even had to offer _money_ yet.

“If you wanted me this badly, you could have just asked.”

“Tell me how you got a picture of a Cooper card,” the badger says harshly, “and for fuck’s sake don’t leave anything out.”

Honey’s home is as cozy as a hospital and twice as clean, which makes sense, given her background. Six years ago she was just finishing her residency as an aspiring ID physician. Now, she works for large corporations as a white hat, the only high-pay job a mammal can get without revealing their face. Those recently-acquired skills come in handy when she feels like stealing money from or generally rutting over the idiots in charge. She also runs a medical center in the heart of District 13, which she uses to launder her ill-gotten gains. Nobody would know it from her living room, though. Instead of some tin-foil-hat bunker with eighty-seven monitors and cookie crumbs everywhere, the two-bedroom apartment looks like it was tastefully decorated by someone’s colorblind great-grandmother. Nick steals a doily every time he comes over. She still hasn’t noticed.

“Well, I was at the museum,” he tells her, settling onto her uncomfortable couch. She takes the only butt-worthy seat, watching him intently. “Everything had gone perfectly. But when I got to the display case, there was this... _ugh..._ this bunny hovering over it, replacing the item with that origami _abomination._ And she called me _sexy – ow!”_

Honey watches impassively as he rides the mildest shock for the first time in months. He always underestimates how much it’s going to hurt, and this time he wasn’t even prepared. Why is he so angry, anyway? It’s just a job. It’s just money.

...But it’s not just money. It’s more than another heist. If the right mammals get their hands on the first collar, they can do some real fun things. Maybe even some good things.

“You done?” He nods at her question, and she scratches the fur under her own collar. “Well it sounds like you ran into the cub Cooper. I didn’t know it was a rabbit girl. Makes sense why nobody’s seen her, though.”

“What _is_ a Cooper, anyway? Why is this stupid paper head so important?”

She gives him a blank look. “How can you call yourself a respectable thief and not know about the Cooper Gang? It’s...as quiet as they are here in Zootopia, it’s bigger than that. They’re legendary. All over the world, at _least_ since writing was a thing, Coopers have been a big sharp pain in the tailpipe for law enforcement. I mean, the name changes regionally. I think in Bohemia it was Kupa. But basically, they’re a long line of really annoying thieves. How’d he get himself a bunny without anybody knowing about it?”

“I don’t know, maybe he married her?”

“Right,” she says, rolling her eyes, “because a pred and prey _marriage_ would go completely under the radar. No, she’s probably his protégé. Would make sense. We haven’t heard anything from him in, oh, six months or so.”

“So you think this guy trained a cute little bunny to steal the first collar? Why? What’s their game?”

She shrugs. “How should I know? I was training to be a doctor, Nick. In another life I could have figured it out, I bet. Isolated whatever biological component makes us predators _vulnerable,_ and then-”

“You’re sounding a little sparky there,” he tells her, insincere grin firmly in place. “Next you’ll be saying these things are necessary.”

“Don’t shit in my porridge just because your little leporidae Cinderella doesn’t want to be found.” She leans forward, paw outstretched. “Give it over. It doesn't look quite right. I’ll scan it and run it through to see if there’s been any buzz, but I doubt it.”

“I really just want you to find Jack Savage for me,” he tells her, passing her the photo anyway.

“Well, hell, I don’t even need my computer for that. He and I get lunch every Tuesday.” He gapes at her and she laughs, delighted. “What, you thought I wouldn’t keep tabs on the best hackers? Not enough of us focus on what needs to be done. Jack knows what’s what, though. We like to compare notes. I can probably work out a meeting, so long as you stay civil.”

“I can be anyone for a job. Civil’s not hard.”

“Might be, if he thinks you’re disturbing his territory. You know, I always figured Laverne was a fox? Named for the goddess of thieves, flexible, works at night, willing to blackmail...the way he talks her up, at first I thought Jack was trying to set me up with her, but he’s just bad at socializing. He only cares about work and his family, and if they’re the ones who got the collar, you’re making a move on both.”

“It was supposed to be mine. Ours.” He gestures to himself and then to Honey, trying not to show how annoyed he is. “We’ve been planning this for months.”

“Face it, Wilde, we got beat. Jack can tell us what they want with it, probably. Hang on a second and I’ll message him.” Nick watches as she types something into her phone. Almost immediately, she gets a reply. Her grin is far larger than he’s comfortable with. “He says to bring you along.”

Nick eyes her warily. “What does it _actually_ say?”

“Anyone Laverne finds attractive is suspect. Bring him and I’ll see for myself.”

“She only saw my _eyes,”_ he complains. “She can’t possibly find me attractive. I don’t trust this guy.”

“You’re right not to trust him. He’s a thief,” Honey reminds him gently. “And he’s right not to trust you, for the same reason. Will you be there on Tuesday, or should I tell him you wussed out?”

“I’ll be there,” he promises, and wishes life weren’t so complicated.

* * *

He’s late. It’s not his fault; a group of sheep decided to kick him into sparking, and although it didn’t work, his shins hurt something awful. He’s not happy that he had to be saved from a bunch of idiots by the relatively famous prosecutor, Dawn Bellwether, but at least she saw firsthand that not all predators fight back. Rumor has it that she’s running next year on a progressivist platform that closely resembles that of former Mayor Lionheart, which makes little sense; although she was his Assistant Mayor for seven years, since retaking her position as the Zoo County prosecutor, she’s mostly associated with Mayor Gooseberry and her cadre of ultra-traditionalists.

He sees Honey immediately when he walks into the Henhouse, a small diner known for its willingness to feed any mammal, predator and prey alike. They even have predator specials; Nick’s favorite is the cicada pasty platter, though if he’s honest, mostly he prefers fruits and nuts. Bug protein is too close to meat.

Honey is sitting with another bunny. His white fur is, oddly, marked with black striping on the face and ears, and his suit is well-made. Lion cut, if Nick remembers correctly, which means that it was a custom buy. This must be Jack Savage. His facial expression says he’s happy to be there with Honey, but his blue eyes are...cold. Disconnected. Nick already hates him, and they haven’t even said hello.

Still, as he told Honey, he can be civil. “Sorry I’m late. Had some trouble on the way here.”

“You mean some medium-large prey cornered you,” Savage surmises, wrinkling his brow. “Idiots think they own the world.”

Ah, right, rabbits didn’t fare too well after the Mammal Exclusion Initiative passed. They certainly don’t have it as bad as predators do, being uncollared and technically allowed to travel freely now, but they’re mostly only allowed in secretarial or _entertainment_ positions and the same mammals who torment predators like to see how long it takes to make a bunny cry. Traditionalist families like the Leapyears mostly dodge the bullet by being short-sighted and owning their oppression in exchange for  _worse_ treatment for predators, but the unemployment rate for city bunnies is almost as high as it is for any predator species. At least the smallest mammals are mostly left alone in Little Rodentia.

“I can neither confirm nor deny that, but off the record, I also ran into Dawn Bellwether. She chased them off, for whatever reason.”

“She can go choke on a bullet,” Savage says, momentarily living up to his name.

“Okay,” Nick replies lightly, shuffling closer to Honey. “So anyway, how much do you know about why I’m here?”

“Sit down; I’m not going to eat you.” The humor is not lost on Nick, whose ancestors probably ate some of Savage’s. “The-”

Honey checks her phone and growls. Her collar light blinks yellow. “I’ve got to go, boys. Duty calls. Don’t kill each other, all right?”

“It’s always good to see you, Honey,” says Savage warmly. “Same time next week?”

“Sorry to run on you. Work stuff. You know how it is.”

“Nope,” Nick says, scowling at Savage who just said the same thing.

“Thief,” Savage reminds her.

Nick waves and takes her seat, annoyed that he’ll probably have to cover her check. Savage turns back to him, once again looking stern. “I know you think you’re here because we share a common goal, and because you’re pissed off about us getting to the target before you did. You’re actually here because I wanted to meet you. Nick Wilde. You’re a wily one, if you’ve managed to evade my net for this long.”

Nick’s heart sinks into his stomach. Good thieves don’t get caught. The best thieves are never known at all. “You were looking for me before this?”

“For about two months now. You’re pretty good at talking, and that’s something we needed. It all worked out in the end, but we could’ve reached our objective earlier...plus, Laverne and I are all alone in this. The truth is, we have to expand if we want to do some good. So I have a proposition for you.”

“Let’s hear it,” Nick says warily.

Savage looks him up and down, shrugs, and tells him, “We need another team member. A grifter. Laverne’s a little too punchy to do well in that area, and I’m needed for work behind the scenes. Tech, mostly, though I make a decent getaway driver. What do you say, Wilde? Want to be part of the gang?”

“The Cooper Gang, you mean? Why would you need me if you’ve got the best thieves in the biz?”

Nick hasn’t exactly been idle these past few days. Reading up on the Coopers has been...enlightening, to say the least. The last living Cooper has pulled some big jobs all over the world, starting when he was just sixteen and ending six months ago, making him active for about forty years. Thieves don’t tend to last that long, especially when pursued viciously by INTERPOL. And speaking of, apparently, the rest of the world has a less prejudiced view of foxes, which is an irritating revelation this late in the game. According to case files he definitely shouldn’t have access to, Carmelita Montoya was the best, until she disappeared into Zootopia following a lead on “Sly” Cooper, which can’t possibly be a real name. That was just before the collars went on and the walls went up, so she was probably stuck in the city, forced into a collar. Odd that INTERPOL never bothered to pull her out.

Savage scowls. Nick’s beginning to think that’s his default expression. “Cooper Gang? That was effectively disbanded six months ago. There’s only one Cooper left, and that barely counts for anything anymore. This life...it used to be fun. We got to steal from the bad guys and forget that everyone, every single mammal in Zootopia, got the shaft when the collars went on. But now I’ve got dead parents and a partner who’s so focused on this collar project I hardly recognize her. You would be a useful addition to the team, but I think you would be good for her, too. Well, not you specifically, but someone to talk to who isn't me.”

“I’m inclined to say no,” Nick tells him, inspecting his claws. The rabbit doesn’t seem intimidated. “Before I do, tell me: what is this collar project?”

“Classified to everyone but team members, obviously. It’s really too bad. I had a fun little heist planned, just as stress relief, that hinged on having someone talk their way into Dawn Bellwether’s good graces. Maybe I’ll see if I can get Quinn Fangmeyer. They’d be a lot harder to convince, but an ex-cop would probably get on better with a prosecutor than someone like you.”

Nick rolls his eyes. “A fox, you mean.”

“I mean a two-bit con artist whose net worth is, what, half a million? You’re good, but you’re stupid. You go for small targets because you think it’s safer. The only difference between a big target and a small target, when you really get down to it, is the monetary value. But now that you mention it, I’m guessing everybody’s least-favorite attorney is probably as prejudiced as any of them.”

Nick lets out a short laugh. “What do you have against her, anyway? She may not be as progressivist as she claims, but she does treat all criminals with the same level of disdain.”

“That’s classified too. Let’s just say I have some firsthand experience with that sheep. I want her to suffer for the rest of her life for what she did to – but that’s not important. You’re not going to join us.”

“No, I’m not,” says Nick, “but I wish you luck. It’s not every day I meet a prey animal who judges me on my work instead of my species.”

“Please. There are a thousand reasons not to like you,” returns Savage with a sharp grin, eyes glinting dangerously. Why, exactly, does Honey like this jackwad? “Your species is inconsequential. Have a pleasant day, Nick Wilde. I shall be far less polite if we cross paths again.”

The bunny stands up, leaves his napkin on the table, and exits stage left, leaving Nick with the bill. Nick snorts, pulls out a pen, and draws a heart on the check. Underneath, he writes, _Sorry! IOU a million bucks and a kiss on the tailpipe! XOXO, Jack Savage._

Prick.


	2. The Art Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bunny thief is more interesting than Nick gave her credit for. More thievery is committed. Currency is acquired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because we won't actually see them in this story, I should tell you that Bentley was an armadillo instead of a turtle and Murray was gray instead of pink. I'm following Zootopia rules, which means that the Sly Cooper universe - though we don't get much of that story in here - is radically different. The gang's MO was still the same, but they didn't do battle with a voodoo priestess or go back in freaking time. None of that mystical stuff...though I like to think that Sly and Carmelita still had their tango.
> 
> Fanfiction is my stress relief, but I can’t update regularly anymore, because work and school are colluding to steal all my time.

The house is a two-bedroom thing on the spiral arm of the galaxy-shaped Happytown. Back when mammals with sharp teeth could afford property, John Wilde – Nick’s dearly departed father, gone for almost three decades now – sank all of his money into this little place in what was touted as an up-and-coming neighborhood. Funding was earmarked for development of another metropolitan area, and everyone was (according to Ruth, anyway) enamored with the idea of gleaming buildings in the heart of District Thirteen and cozy suburbs in the spiral arm. A haven for predators, who could buy cheap before development began. Property values would soar, and treatment of predators would change once prey saw that predators were just like them. Happytown was a temporary name made up of hopes and dreams, but once the project was abandoned, Happytown became another irony in a sea of sharp-toothed jokes. District Thirteen was officially annexed six years ago due to the quarantine, but it still feels like its own separate city, a different culture for a different time.

Even though he pulls all of his jobs in other districts, he spends most of his time here in this house, plotting or waiting. The pacing is new, though. It’s new, and it’s unwanted. What should have been a hiccup has turned into an actual problem, and it’s not even the stupid bunny thief’s fault.

When you’ve been doing it as long as Nick has, it’s easy enough to get back on your feet after a failure. It’s easy to shake it off when you have no pride to lose, and Nick makes it a priority to have as little pride as possible. After all, some of the best games hinge on being humiliated. So he’s not really sure why the loss of the collar is itching so badly, but he has a feeling it has less to do with the fact that it was stolen by somebody else, and more to do with the fact that there is an operation in town that he didn’t know about. He’s not used to having unknowns muck up the works.

Nick is the best at what he does. That’s never been in question. But he also, as a general rule, never goes after risky things like this. The only other time he’s ever done a job this big is the time he went after the Staff of Genevieve for an employer who rewarded him handsomely and never contacted him again. Is this...what he’s feeling...is this _fear?_ It’s been so long he doesn’t remember if this is what it feels like. It’s like anger, but with a bitter aftertaste and a punch to the trachea.

His collar blinks sluggishly on the table. He was never planning to use the skeleton key more than once, but it feels good to have the collar off, even if it’s just in private. There’s a little bit of vague guilt there, too, because despite his disgust at the system, there’s a little piece of him that constantly asks _what if?_ What if he catches the regression disease? What if he goes on a rampage? He’s a thief, not a killer. If the collar works the way it should...then it’ll shock him into unconsciousness or even death before he can hurt any mammals. He’s not a fan of the idea, but he’s also not a fan of getting gunned down by the cops (or worse, recovering, and having to live with the fact that he killed _x_ amount of mammals). He _should_ give the skeleton key to Dawn Bellwether, through the lost-and-found system she set up a couple of years back. He’d probably get a reward for his own theft, and the best kind of con is one that pays twice, but...he can’t bring himself to do it, just like he can’t bring himself to put his own collar back on.

At least he’s alone. Finnick, bless him, took Ruth to the clinic for her sore throat so that Nick could get in some quality brooding time. Nick hates that he needs it. It’s been years since he’s been anything but genial, or at least smarmy.

 _“Read the damn file, Nick,”_ he growls aloud, and forces himself to sit.

After confirming that Laverne was their bunny thief's name, Finnick did a much more thorough search and concluded that “Laverne” was probably Judy Laverne Hopps, the one reported missing six years ago by Dawn Bellwether. Information about the rabbit girl was sparse, but it worried Finnick so much that he ordered Nick to go over it while he and Ruth were out. Nick’s been putting it off in favor of pacing because...well, he’s not sure. But throwing a fit isn’t going to solve anything.

Finnick knows Nick’s distaste for computers, so the file is a paper one. They probably can’t really afford the ink and paper for all the jobs they do, but he has no patience for technology, so when he picks up the file he can only go through it in the order Finnick deemed most important when he put it together.

Cover sheet: a black-and-white photo of a grinning college Freshman shaking hands with Leodore Lionheart, managing to look starstruck and terrified all in the same moment. Judy Hopps should be twenty-four now, based on her date of birth. How did this bright-eyed bunny girl go from a progressivist campaign aide to a flirtatious sneak-thief?

According to the file, she studied for a year at Meadowbrook College, which is...likely somewhere out in the sticks, before accepting a summer internship position at City Hall. Probably, he thinks uncharitably, for some extra credit brownie points that would mean nothing even if Zootopia hadn’t gone to hell in a pawbasket. That year was the year the walls went up around Zootopia – “savage quarantine,” they called it, even though back then savage predators were uncommon  _–_ and everyone, citizen or not, was trapped inside. Assimilated. That would explain why she chose to transfer to Zootopia University that fall, though not why she switched her major from Criminal Justice to physics. Great scores across the board in classes he probably couldn’t pretend to have knowledge of even _with_ a decent library, and then a couple of citations during the winter months. One for vagrancy and one for loitering, neither of which would raise eyebrows or even keep her from gainful employment, one for _pack behavior,_ which makes no sense, and finally an actual arrest for assault and battery in April 2011, which was settled outside of court. Five months later, the missing mammals report was filed, but that part makes sense now; if Judy Hopps and Dawn Bellwether knew each other through work, they were probably friends. The sheep’s whole shtick was representation “for the little guys,” after all.

What _doesn’t_ make sense is why a little carrot-eater from Hicksville, Hicktopia would throw down her tiny gauntlet when it would be better for her to keep her head down. What _doesn’t_ make sense is why a delinquent little kit from nowhere would be so important to a high-profile criminal prosecutor.

Why did Finnick think he needed to see this? They already knew they were dealing with another criminal. It doesn’t seem like anything he needs to know, unless the job is back on. He draws out his phone – it’s a burner, something Jillian Furris bought at the marketplace last time she did a goods run – and texts his partner. _Are we still working or has she come between us?_

Better to be paranoid and sound a little silly than not careful enough and get caught. Nick doesn’t expect anyone to believe he has anything to do with, well, anything, and it’s not like burner phones are easily traceable. Honey has explained to him dozens of times that Nocturnal District Hacking doesn’t exist; while text messages are technically loggable and admissible in a court of law, that sort of scenario comes around once in a lifetime (as a result of warrants and red tape) and random hackers certainly won’t magically get a list of dirty laundry just by _somehow_ finding his text messages. Nick doesn’t have any sort of faith in the justice system, though, and it’s better to overestimate mammals’ abilities than underestimate them, right?

_Ur n idiot. Read t stuff I left u._

_I did. None of it seems relevant._

_Like I said ur n idiot. Stop sulkin. B bck n 10._

Nick detests Finnick’s tendency to cram his texts. Where does he think they are, Bayern? It isn’t a big deal, but Nick is a mammal who makes a living out of being as well-spoken as possible. He likes language – takes pleasure in it – and seeing it unabashedly butchered is one of the reasons he doesn’t like texting. He uses his phone to read the news and play games, but that’s really the extent of it. He doesn’t even get email through the messaging app that came preinstalled.

Speaking of words and games…it’s probably better to calm down than continue to get worked up over something he can’t control. Reluctantly, he slips on his collar again, closing the lock with shaking paws.

He’s been immersed in a basic crossword app for about ten minutes when Finnick and Ruth come shuffling through the door, Ruth's paw on Finnick's head. Nick will never understand her refusal to get a cane, but if she really feels comfortable allowing others to just _guide_ her, then whatever, that’s her prerogative. Finnick looks as irritable as ever, which is reassuring.

“It’s just seasonal allergies,” Finnick tells him, even though Nick wasn’t planning on asking. “No meds required, just fluids.”

“That’s great,” replies Nick, though his gladness is less about her health and more about not having to pay for a prescription. “You hear that, Ma? You have to drink more.”

“I’ll drink what I want,” Ruth tells him, settling in her usual chair. It’s the most comfortable seat in the place, but at least when she’s there, she’s not elsewhere. They’ve lost information before as a result of her tripping over power cords.

“Anyway.” He focuses on Finnick. “Why’d you want me to read about Judy Hopps?”

“These ain’t standard thieves, is why.”

“What do you mean? Looks like Bunny got in over her head and had to resort to a life of crime, just like anybody else.”

“Did you even read the police report?”

“I skimmed it for anything that looked important.”

Finnick growls. “So, no, then. Fine. The short version is that this bunny got arrested at a rally. For attacking a group of prey. She sent a couple of them to the hospital, but ended up there herself, once for three days and then again for three months, probably because of complications. Official statement is that they were innocently standing in a circle chatting when suddenly a random bunny came and attacked them all, but online reports – the ones they _didn’t_ admit into evidence – say there was a female predator curled up in the middle of that circle, sparking out for reasons nobody was brave enough to say. And then after she disappeared, she obviously got taken in by a thief family. Are you reading between the lines here? Because I am. I know you; you’re not going to let the collar thing go. It’s good money. I’m telling you, _don’t go after it._ We’ll withdraw from the market. Play it safe for a while. But if we go up against them...best case scenario, they-”

“Ask me to join their operation again.” Nick frowns. “I should have filled you in on the conversation we had, but Ru – uh, Mom was getting sick and it slipped my mind. Jack Savage asked me if I was willing to join up with them. He also said there are only two of them now.”

“And you believed him?”

“You know I don’t believe anybody, but there’s no logical reason to lie about that. Anyway, I’m not going after the collar. I’m not stupid.”

“Stupid, no. But I’ve never seen you give up on a job. This is good. Okay. What are we doing instead?”

“I was thinking about going after the Heart of the Galaxy, actually,” says Nick, watching Finnick for cues. They’ve never bothered to go after the largest opal in the world before, because there are very few places to safely get rid of famous gems, but they _do_ have a safe place all lined up for them. “Don’t withdraw from the market. We’ll sell it there. It’s worth about a million bucks, too, so we’ll get the payout either way.”

“You think you can do it?” Finnick’s skepticism shouldn’t be faulted. Nick’s said before that he can’t do it, but that was less of an honest response and more of a way to cut off the discussion before it began.

Nick shrugs, smiling vaguely in the direction of their computer. Honey set up their security, so it’s reasonably safe. “I’ve been researching it for a while. It’s a hobby I come back to when I can’t sleep. Doug Ramses is having a party in a couple of days and guess who’s hiring wait staff?”

“That’s great and everything, but Doug Ramses doesn’t own the opal.”

Nick grins and wishes he could actually feel the enthusiasm that should be there. “No, but he’s holding it at the Hoofstadt mansion. _That_ is where the opal is.”

“And what makes you think you’ll be able to get hired on as wait staff? You’re a fox. A predator.”

Nick appreciates Finnick’s willingness to argue. Every plan needs to be examined with fresh eyes, and Finn’s prodding makes sure that Nick misses less than he would were he speaking to an echo chamber. Their jobs are better, cleaner, when they fight like hell during the planning stage. “Yes, a collared one. A _tame_ fox. Who would say no to a desperate single father who can’t even afford a babysitter? Look, I’ve cross-referenced the guest list with prior functions and common talk, and about eighty percent of the big names are the idiots who like having predator staff. They basically own us, and they know it, and most of us are so desperate for employment that we’ll do anything, even if it means lowering ourselves to novelty status. They _want_ us there because it makes them look and feel powerful. Ooh, lookit me, a meek little herbivore with big scary carnivores at my beck and call. No, what I’m most worried about is getting hired on in the department I _need,_ which is why I need you in your elephant jammies.”

“You know I _despise_ that costume,” Finnick says flatly, but it’s not a no.

Nick only rolls his eyes. “You despise everything. If it gets the job done, who cares what you look like? You just have to sit there sucking on a binkie. I’m the one who has to play the tamed hired help.”

That’s the part that does burn. Every day it burns through the apathy. There are about five predators who were wealthy or prestigious enough to not get the shaft when the collars went on, and all of them (except Leodore Lionheart, who has gone into seclusion) work in the Nocturnal District, which only offers highly specific employment opportunities to educated workers. These days, _educated workers_ means older mammals or younger prey. That means the only ones hiring are prey employers, and there’s always a sense of disdain...or misplaced pride. _I’m so very generous for hiring predators._ Even BugBurga hires mostly young prey, and they cater to carnivores and omnivores. Nick spent his youth enchanted by his gleaming city, exploring every nook and cranny, making it his business to know everyone...or at least know a guy who knows a guy. He hardly recognizes it now.

This is not the Zootopia his parents sought refuge in when he was just a kit. This is not the Zootopia he fell in love with. As flawed and broken as it was before, it was _home,_ and he never even considered leaving. Nowadays, he’d love nothing more than to escape, but migration is restricted; anyone with a collar is barred from leaving, even though the walls came down four years ago.

Finnick studies him, and Nick pretends it’s not unnerving. The truth is, Nick’s specialty is making mammals do what he wants, but Finnick is the eyes behind the operation. He’s less than adept at making mammals like him, or even listen to him, but he picks up on almost everything just from looking. Back when they were hustling treats and other goods, Nick did the heavy lifting, but Finnick chose the locations and the target market. Very seriously, the older fox asks, “Are you sure this is what you want, Nick?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I _mean,”_ says Finnick, rolling his eyes, “are you going after the opal because it’s a good opportunity or because you want to pull a big job to prove yourself? Ain’t no shame in losing, Kit. Sometimes it happens. You gotta let that wounded pride go.”

“It isn’t a pride thing,” Nick assures him.

“And you’ll back off if you don’t get hired on as staff?”

Nick hates the idea, but it is a possibility he’s considered. “Yeah, I’ll back off if it doesn’t pan out.”

“Then let’s get started. Ruth, you want in on the planning?”

He doesn’t really understand why Finnick so adores Ruth. Then again, Nick never bothered to explain why he ran away from home in the first place. His youthful idealism, not quite squashed at twelve even _after_ the debacle with the Scouts, clashed horribly with Ruth’s traditionalist backslide and borderline hatred for prey. As an adult, he understands her fears from back then – and that _was_ what had talked, not hatred as he interpreted it – but twelve-year-old Nick Wilde couldn’t possibly have understood that she’d accurately predicted history would repeat itself.

The civil rights riots from when he was four, which he barely remembers now, were supposed to fix things, and in a better world, they would have. Maybe in that world, Lionheart got reelected and Gooseberry’s TAME Act was a passing fancy of a washed-up ex-politician. Even in that world, though, Nick would still have fallen out with his mother, because John Wilde would still be dead. Wrong-place-wrong-time foxing in public got him shot by a paranoid elk during the Riot Era, and Ruth never really recovered. Nick’s disastrous “initiation” only cemented in her mind that prey were basically evil, and their fight before he left her house _(for good,_ he thought at the time) ended with Ruth saying, _“Next thing you know they’ll have us in chains, Nicholas. Never trust prey. They’re weak and stupid.”_

Shock collars are, he’ll freely admit, better than shackles, but only just. Nick has never been one to accept that “not as bad as it could be” is the same as “good,” or even “fine,” but public policy says he should be grateful he’s not locked up somewhere, or beaten daily, or dead. He _is_ happy about that, but grateful? Not a chance.

“You boys go ahead,” says Ruth, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I’m too old for this game.”

 _You were right,_ he wants to tell her, the sudden desire startling him. But he still resents her for the way she raised him. Even as she worked as a library aide for minimum wage, she taught him about all the great cons, how to pick pockets, how to read mammals and make them do things. He enjoyed life as a hustler as much as he could enjoy anything, even before the collars went on, but he imagines that his teen years might have been less dangerous had she taught him a different skillset. Or at least encouraged him to stay in school. The only thing that keeps him from being a full-on stereotype at this point is his insatiable desire to know things. He’s spent more money on books than he has on _food_ at this point, and although it’s served him well…

No, it doesn’t matter. Every little thing can be useful, in the end, as long as you know how to spin it.

“You ain’t old, Ruthie,” Finnick tells her.

“I’m blind, not stupid. Back in my day, you could make a living sweet-talking mammals out of their valuables. Nowadays all that fancy technology just gets in the way, not that I can see it in the first place.”

 _Back in your day,_ he thinks, _you used me as a prop in your schemes. Dad would have been heartbroken._

She did what she had to do to survive and keep him safe, he gets that. It’s just that every so often he remembers that allowing him to join the Junior Ranger Scouts was in itself part of a bigger con. Look at the poor overworked mother, trying to give a good life to her sweet little Scout. So she forgot her wallet? Maybe just this once we can spare some extra…

Nick built an idealized version of her in his head when he was out on the streets, convinced himself that he was out there working hard to keep her out of the hustle, tricked himself into thinking that he separated from her to protect her from mammals like Mr. Big. The little vixen library aide with flagging health. He’s sure that if he still lived apart from her, he’d think of her fondly, gratefully, but living in close quarters has reminded him of all the bad things. Some mammals just love each other better at a distance, but unfortunately, distance is impossible now.

It’s nobody’s fault, and it does no one any good to dwell. So he locks it away in the corner of his brain he tries not to frequent and claps his paws together. “I’ll have to burn the identity after this job is done, but I’m thinking I should be Oliver Harfang. It’s a solid alias with...a decent employment history, but kind of useless otherwise. And he has a son, so if they for some reason run a background check – they never do, but we can’t count on that – the story checks out. What do you think, can you be Ollie Junior one last time?”

“I can do anything,” says Finnick, but his ears flatten a little.

“Good enough for me.” Nick grins, all teeth. “Now let's work out the finer details."

* * *

Sometimes, Nick does little jobs on his own. It’s not that Finnick isn’t an asset, because he absolutely is, but Nick has a deep, abiding need to be alone sometimes. He needs to escape the house, escape company, and just...breathe. The jobs give him focus, but the real goal isn’t the payout, it’s the relative solitude. Nick Wilde the grifter can be anyone. Nick Wilde the thief can be no one. There’s no pressure to conform or act or even speak. It’s freeing.

Tonight’s stress relief is a painting in Mayor Gooseberry’s summer home. Nobody’s there at the moment; it’s a low-stress, low-risk job that still carries enough excitement to get his blood pumping hard enough that...were he wearing his collar, he might get zapped. But he’s not wearing it. He’s got the dummy collar on again, and there’s some part of him that knows he’ll get addicted to the freedom of it. The dummy collar gives him permission to _feel,_ and the more he does, the more he hates having to wall everything off. The sad truth, though, is that he can’t just walk around in daylight hours wearing a fake collar. If a cop decided to scan him for an ID chip...collar malfunction is a plausible excuse, but then they’d take it away and replace it with a real one. Aside from providing selfish freedom, it’ll be immensely useful should they take on bigger jobs on a regular basis.

Nick got the schematics out of the very gay weasel who tends the garden and takes pride in his work. Nick’s always been good at flirting, which has had some...unintended consequences over the years. Fiona, his most recent ex-girlfriend (as of eight years ago; he’s been happily out of the game for a while), left him for “flirting” with some hipster wolf girl at Espress Yourself, telling him she didn’t want to stand by while he explored his sexuality. Being _queer,_ she told him, was not bad, but she didn’t want _her fox_ to flirt with other species while she was standing right there. The most amusing aspect of the whole situation, Nick knows _now,_ is that she was wrong; he wasn’t even flirting that time, just being friendly. And he can’t blame Fiona for her hardwired instincts; vixens are known for being possessive, especially over their partners, and it’s not like he actually defended himself. At the time, he was hurt and confused at her unwillingness to watch him be nice.

The weasel, Bob, was much more amenable to casual flirting. He was attractive enough, in a sort of cute-and-jittery way, and it certainly wasn’t a bad way to spend an afternoon, especially since he now has a better way in than just picking the lock. He’s not bad at picking them, but it seems like a cop-out...and his paws are a little too large for delicate work like that. Nick’s entry is the gardener’s key under the stone path in the backyard. Clean, simple, and leaves no evidence. _Safe._

Well, as safe as burglary can be.

He opens the door and takes a deep breath in through his nose. Scent tracking may not be admissible in a court of law, but it’s certainly useful for breaking the law. Nick can tell whether or not there are any other mammals around, unless they’re using scentblock, and he can even usually discern what kind of mammal they are. That sort of thing has to be trained, but it’s one of the best tools he has. Nobody is around, so he continues through the door and into the kitchen. The hard-wood floors are spotless and the counters would, he knows, be gleaming were there more light. He’s not a hoarder or anything, but he appreciates a bit of organized chaos; the neatness of the house is more than a little unnerving.

According to reports and photos, the Picatso is displayed in the parlor. Despite the ridiculous cliché, Nick can see why; the space above the mantle is perfect for it, and the decorations are sparse and tasteful enough that they complement the piece. Nick wants to glue Honey’s doilies to every surface, but he’ll have to make do with – what was _that?_

There shouldn’t be any noise at all.

“Ooh,” says a voice from behind him, and _dammit,_ he knows her. Bunny Thief strikes again. “I know that tail-wrap. Fancy meeting you here, Gorgeous.”

Scentblock is the _worst._ He turns, guarding the painting with his body. He’s almost twice her size; she probably can’t get through him. Pitching his voice low, as he usually does while on the job, he replies, “The painting’s mine. Get your own.”

“Painting…? Oh, the Picatso. No, go ahead, I don’t want it. I'm here for something else.” Her mouth curls up into a charming expression, and he’s grateful he chose to mask the lower half of his face instead of wearing a domino mask. Hers is big enough that it covers her upper cheeks and part of her forehead, but muzzles are distinctive. Nick would recognize her on the street now that he’s seen her smile. Now that he thinks about it, though, her eyes are just as recognizable. Blue, unless he misses his guess...which is possible, considering night vision is good for pattern recognition but not color detail. “It’s funny you’d choose tonight of all nights to come here. I didn’t expect to run into you.”

“I didn’t expect it either,” he admits. This, however dangerous, is an opportunity. It would be a shame to waste it. Whatever it is she’s about to steal, it probably has a lot of value. If he can get it, he might be able to hock it through Duke Weaselton. He casually turns his back on her, standing ready to run or fight even as he pulls out a delicate tool for removing paintings from permanent frames and begins the extraction. “What are _you_ here for?”

“Just some things from Pawlee’s safe. If we’re right, and we usually are, she has some important information in there.”

Information is a currency many animals overlook, but it is much more valuable than money. It may not buy you a meal, but it can buy you favors and silence. It may be comprised of words, but Nick’s craft is words. He sinks into convenient apathy to cover what would most certainly become excitement. If the rumors are true, rabbits can hear heartbeats. “Why do you call Mayor Gooseberry by her given name? Actually, better question, how do you plan on getting into the safe?”

Almost there...yes. A perfect extraction. He rolls up the painting and removes the copy from the cylindrical container strapped to his back. If he’s lucky, nobody will notice for another few weeks that the painting is a fake, and by then Bob will have forgotten all about the flirtatious fox with a keen interest in Mayor Gooseberry’s garden.

She huffs. He feels her gaze on his back – well, his tail, really. He wraps it for jobs so that nobody will pick out color patterns if they see him, but she seems interested in it anyway. “I have clever paws. I know how to work delicate triggers to get at the tasty treats inside.”

He doesn’t choke on his own saliva, but it’s a near thing. _That_ was definitely an innuendo. He wonders if she’s doing it to throw him off-guard or if she really does find attractive the bits of him she can see. Probably the first. Carefully, he looks at her over his shoulder. Her eyes are not hungry and she is not smiling. “So you’re a safe-cracker.”

“I’m a thief.”

He pulls out his ace to put her on the defensive. “Yeah, I've been wondering about that. How does Judy Hopps from Bunnyburrow go from a campaign aide to a career criminal?”

“You’ve certainly done your homework,” she tells him smoothly, showing not a speck of discomfort. As a master of misdirection, he knows not to trust her tone. “You have me at a disadvantage. I feel like I know you, but I can’t place your voice or your posture.”

That last is because he moves differently in his daily life. It’s a deliberate cover-up, another layer of identity protection. “You know we foxes all look alike.”

“Just as all bunnies look alike? Don’t be silly. It’s something about your ears...or maybe your eyes. Anyway, I'd better get going. Don’t want to be here in the morning.”

“Do you mind if I watch?”

_“What?”_

“I've never seen a master at work,” he says truthfully. “I'd love to see a professional crack a safe. I'm not suited to delicate work like that.”

“No, with that voice of yours I’d bet you’re better at using that tongue,” she teases, and he can think of lots of dirty responses, but this isn’t the time or place for real flirting. “I don’t see the harm. Okay. Follow me, and make sure you step where I step. The second floor has a security system that is frankly ridiculous.”

He follows her quietly up the stairs, unable to keep his eyes averted as her scut bounces very slightly with each step. Under her tight outfit, her muscles are obvious. This is a mammal who has trained extensively. She’s not conventionally attractive, but he can’t see a reason for her to be so immersed in illegal activity; rabbits like settling down and having scads of kits, and using a few easy tricks, she could get any male she fancied panting after her. Do bunnies pant?

“Okay, there’s a motion detector up here, but it's jerry-rigged and the range is small. Make it past the grid and we’ll be out of range. I guess the assumption is that nobody will make it, but we're lucky: the camera can only face one direction so the sides of the grid are safe,” she warns.

The landing is criss-crossed with moving lasers and if he’s right, the motion detector is on the ceiling. How are they supposed to get through this mess? More importantly, why would the Mayor have such a weird security system? What kind of information is it _protecting?_ Hopps doesn’t seem worried at all, but then, this is probably the exact kind of insanity she’s trained for. She tucks her ears into the collar of her turtleneck, backs into the banister, and hops onto it, seeming to blend right into the shadows. He can barely see her balance on the railing to avoid the lasers before jumping beyond the reach of the basic motion detector, movements precise and contained. Nick knows he hasn’t got a prayer, so he makes sure to memorize the pattern of the lasers. He may not be able to do what she’s doing _exactly,_ but he can certainly minimize his presence.

Making his way to the far wall, careful of the motion detector, Nick presses against the hard surface and steps over the lasers, keeping the pattern firmly in his mind. It takes him far longer than it took her, but he eventually makes it to the other side and joins her. She looks delighted, which he didn’t expect. “Not the most efficient way, but I admire your strategy.”

“I’d fall right off the railing,” he admits. “How do you manage without pawpads?”

“Calluses, rubber nail caps, and single-side adhesive soles. They stick to my feet and give me traction. I've been thinking about getting these things called shoes, but I'd have to retrain myself and that would take too long. Come on, watch me feel up a safe.”

“Oh, yeah,” he comments, injecting just enough gravel into his voice to make him sound a bit turned on. She leads the way into the doorway at the end of the hall, laughing. It’s funny, because making her laugh feels good. There’s not enough laughter these days, at least the kind that isn’t based in schadenfreude. One of the best parts of grifting is that giving mammals what they want benefits everyone. He has a meal ticket, and the poor sap gets to laugh.

Life is hard now even for prey, if he’s honest. It’s easy to forget that because they don’t wear collars, but Judy Hopps is a perfect example of how a broken system doesn’t actually benefit anyone who isn’t in power. There is something _wrong_ with a criminal justice student becoming a sneak thief.

She shines a light into the corner of the room and breathes, “Sweet cheese and crackers.”

“What is it,” he asks warily, ready to run.

“It’s an old Clockwerk.” Her tone is almost...reverent. “Combination dial with a secret keyhole that uses an unusual number of tumblers, five inches of steel separating us from the prize inside. Oooooh, this is so sexy, I think I’m in love.”

“...With a _safe.”_

“Don’t judge me, Fox, I’ve wanted to get my paws on one of these since I learned about them. The security isn’t the greatest, but it’s more than classic, it’s the standard that everyone’s been building on for centuries. Now hush, I need to get a feel for this.”

He sits on the bed, watching curiously as she kneels in front of the wall and rests her head against the metal. She sighs happily as she reaches up to grasp the dial and slowly, carefully, turns it. Nick’s hearing is good even among foxes, but he knows he’d have to have complete silence to even _try_ to hear the pins and clicks. With one paw she reaches under the bottom lip and with the other, she spins the dial carefully. It really does look like she’s feeling it up, and he tries not to laugh. Finally, she backs away, left paw still wedged under the lip, and pulls out a cork leather case. It’s a standard lockpick case, almost identical to the one Nick owns, but much older. Probably a hand-me-down from her mentor.

She inserts the tension wrench into a keyhole he can’t see and selects the smallest pick, humming a bit. He watches in fascination as she takes visible joy in the simple act of opening the safe. Finally, it pops open and she shoots him a blinding grin over her shoulder. “That’s how it’s done.”

“What’s inside?”

“Blueprints...don’t need those, but I’m taking them anyway...ledgers, I’ll have Jack do something cool with them if there’s anything cool to be done, and some kind of journal. Oh! And is this made of real emeralds? A necklace, too. You’re coming home with me, you gorgeous thing,” she coos, shoving the jewelry into her pocket.

That is _ridiculously_ cute. Rabbits don’t like being called cute for some reason, so if he wants to charm her he’ll have to be careful, but still, it’s a near thing. He presses just a little, “Really, though. Why did you start stealing things?”

“It was a matter of principle. Hold this for me, will you?” She hands him the books and blueprints. “I need to get something out of my bag.”

“What principle,” he asks, taking her stolen items into his paws. He’d run off with them, but due to the stupid security in the hallway, she’d catch up to him quickly. Better to steal them from her outside.

She draws out what Honey called a Cooper Card and places it in the empty vault, her smile withering. “We have a code. A way to choose our targets that...maybe doesn’t do the kind of good I wanted to do, but causes a lot of problems for the right animals.”

He examines the goods for a moment, noting that the book and one of the ledgers belongs to the county prosecutor and not Gooseberry. She shuts the safe and stands while he asks her, “What’s that code?”

“We only steal from bad mammals,” she confides, bouncing lightly on her feet.

He grins, despite knowing she can’t see it. “Yeah? Mayor Gooseberry, I get, but what about Dawn Bellwether?”

“What?”

“I only ask because her name is on the cover of this book.” He holds it up to show her the engraving. The truth is, he’s curious to know what their history is. “Is she a bad mammal too?”

“Well, I mean.” Suddenly, she looks not-quite-tired, like that brief sadness she wore when looking at the card. “Jack thinks so. And I...can’t allow my personal feelings to get in the way of our goals.”

“And these goals,” he says casually. “Would they be the steal-lots-of-money variety, or the build-giant-robots-and-take-over-the-world variety?”

“Sweet sassafras, we’re not _cartoon villains!”_ Nick is inordinately pleased to see her smile return. Even though she’s just some random bunny, watching her expressions has been...pleasant. “We’re master thieves. Or trying to be, anyway. Got to live up to the Cooper name. Steal from the corrupt...”

“...give to the disenfranchised?”

She looks at him like she thinks he’s stupid. “What do I look like, a folk hero? My post-job rituals all involve pizza and gold.”

“I’m very certain that predator you got arrested over saw you as a hero,” he points out, stretching out his legs and watching her droop. Huh. That’s interesting.

“Maybe.” She sighs, looking torn about...something. Notably, she doesn’t join him on the bed. “I shouldn’t have had to do it in the first place, though. Stepping in doesn’t make you a hero when it’s something any decent mammal should do. It doesn’t even make you a decent mammal. It just makes you aware of how many decent mammals there _aren’t._ The system is corrupt, maybe beyond repair, but I was an idealist back then. I thought if I yelled loud enough, my voice would make a difference. I thought if I _acted,_ I could affect change.”

“And then you learned the fun way that they’d rather turn on you than listen,” he surmises.

“Dawn used my case as political capital,” she tells him, skirting the question, “and I think that’s why Jack hates her. Gesa Klaue was arguably the better attorney, but she was a raccoon. Dawn made it look like charging me was a power play, a predator punishing small prey just because she could. Klaue lost her job, Dawn got the position, and I…”

“You got off.”

Her paws are shaking but her voice is clear when she replies, “Let’s  go with that.”

“Well, you didn’t go to prison.”

“There’s more than one way to keep a young impressionable bunny trapped.” She forces a laugh so fake it almost hurts to listen to it. “Anyway, I’m done here. Follow me; if we unlock the window from the inside, we can climb down the trellis. You’re skinny enough that it should hold. I’ll take my stuff.”

He hands over the items from the safe, watching carefully as she slips them into her backpack. He’ll only have one shot at this, so he makes sure to memorize the order she puts them in. Silently, he follows behind her and copies her movements; it’s a short drop to the top of the garden trellis and a simple matter of climbing down after that, but in the event that the (clearly paranoid) mayor has other traps, he’ll let Hopps go down first. She reaches the ground shortly and waves him down as well. Fortunately, they’re in the backyard, so he can replace the key. No harm, no foul, and Bob won’t lose his job.

“I’m back to HQ,” she tells him, sounding almost...reluctant. Again, he won’t say it’s cute. “Will you get home all right?”

“You’re worried about me? Aww, Little Carrot, I’m honored.”

“Do _not_ call me a carrot,” she says harshly.

“Whoa, okay.” He raises his paws in mock-surrender. “I’m taking the train home. The night line goes right past my house. Do you...want to keep me company while I wait?”

“You want me to? For real?”

“Sure. I had fun tonight. Granted, I was expecting solitude, but all in all, not a bad way to spend an evening, Miss Hopps.”

“It’s Cooper, not Hopps, but thanks, I think. You know, I still don’t know your name.”

“Why spoil the surprise?” He bumps her gently with his elbow. “Names aren’t important anyway. They’re as interchangeable as hats.”

“Which, I suppose, is why Judy Hopps feels old and Laverne Cooper is just a name I wear when I have to wear one.”

He watches her from behind as she leads the way. He could never get lost in Zootopia, but he’s enjoying the view. Her strides are solid; she does not seem to care whether he follows her or not, which is sort of funny, considering that she’s only going there because he invited her.

He’s quiet during the two-block stroll to the station, considering how to best go about getting Dawn Bellwether’s book from her pack. Honey likes to stay above-board as much as possible, so the ledgers are probably better left in Jack Savage’s paws anyway, and without context the blueprints will probably be useless. As for the necklace...well, he doesn’t want to stick his paw in her pocket. She’s a fellow thief, and she might attack him for it. He doesn’t know much about bunnies, but even if he did, she would probably defy stereotypes anyway; until he knows how strong she is, it’s a bad idea to provoke her.

“Wow,” she says, looking at the schedule, “you almost didn’t make it. Train should be here any second now. I was...kind of hoping we’d get to talk more, but I guess not.”

He steps close to her, holding his arms open. One thing he _does_ know about bunnies is that they are naturally affectionate. “Like I said, I had a lot of fun tonight. Closest I’ve had to a night out on the town in years. How about a hug from my new friend?”

“Oh! I...I mean, yes, sure,” she replies. He’s not sure why she’s flustered. Surely she has plenty of bucks vying for her attention. She moves in and wraps her arms around his stomach, nuzzling into the front of his black shirt. It feels...inappropriately intimate, but if he wants to work the book out of her pack before the train arrives, he has to let her keep doing it. Besides, it’s not bad, as long as she doesn’t mean anything by it.

She tenses up as the warning bell rings and shoves him. He reflexively puts his arms protectively around his middle, but in doing so, he shows the book in his paw. Her scowl is actually a thing of beauty, not that he’d ever say that to her. “I can’t _believe_ you. I gave you a _hug._ When I felt you rooting around in my pack I thought, no, he couldn’t possibly be stealing from me after saying all those nice things...but I was wrong. You’re just like everybody else.”

“I am like _nobody_ else,” he retorts, stepping into the tracks. She, like most mammals, probably won’t follow him. “You’re a wonder, Fluff, I’ll give you that, but-”

She makes a grab for the book, but he lifts it out of her reach. Her small paws curl into fists. “You’re just another selfish jerk who leaves the heavy lifting to someone else!”

“Hey, now. I gave you something nice, and in return, you gave me something nice. Not my fault you’re so willing to trust flattery. It’s called a hustle, Sweetheart,” he tells her, grinning and holding the book behind his back instead of high above his head. She’s a bunny, so she’s likely a jumper, but the train is coming and she seems reluctant to step onto the tracks. He has to time this right, but if he doesn’t completely ruin it, this will be a fantastic exit. He takes a step back so he won’t get hit by the night line and salutes carelessly. “And with that, I bid you adieu, Little Carrot.”

The train rolls by and he takes a flying leap, grasping the railing of the caboose with one paw and waving the book with the other.

“Te atraparé, Zorro,” she cries after him, and Nick has absolutely no idea what that means, but he can guess she’s not happy. Then, she adds, “Argh! Fils de pute!”

 _That_ one he knows. And although it’s inappropriate, the laugh it draws out of his chest is absolutely genuine for the first time in _years._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve agonized over whether to use “hock” or “hawk.” Technically, hocking is pawning and hawking is selling loudly. Neither apply, but we use a form of it verbally to mean selling something discreetly, usually via a third party (he’ll __ it for us). I chose “hock” because of the third party. It’s closer to pawning than barking, only you don’t have the expectation of getting it back. You sell it to someone, who pays you roughly what it’s worth, then they sell it for a higher price without involving you. Also, if you know anything about Sly Cooper, you know that Judy’s been hanging out with a group of animals from other countries, so I think it’s only right that she’s picked up some slang from other languages. My new family is multilingual and it’s pretty common to hear someone begin a sentence in English or French, switch halfway through, and get a response in German, but Judy only switches to other languages when she’s reeeeeeeally mad.


	3. The Opal Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick goes after the Heart of the Galaxy and learns several new and disturbing things. Meanwhile, Jack Savage and the bunny Cooper are both kinda nuts, and the Zoo County prosecutor is paranoid for reasons unknown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gives Nick a lot of questions but very few answers, unfortunately. My plan is to reveal the whole thing over time, so that this can be plot-driven instead of a boring romance filled with scads of exposition. Speaking of romance, that's not really coming any time soon, but it is coming. I've even committed to writing smut in a later chapter! But Nick strikes me as someone who'd be on the ace spectrum, so he's not going to be sex-driven, and Judy's desires won't be mentioned until Nick actually notices them.
> 
> A side note: Dawn Bellwether is one of the best Disney villains, because she honestly believes that drugging citizens, amassing collateral damage, and turning a tenth of the population into scapegoats are right and good things to do, and if that’s not evil, I don’t know what is. In this AU, it’s important to look at her as the affably-prejudiced-but-professionally-fair prosecutor who would step between a fox and a bunch of aggressive prey. Is she a villain? Is she just a luckier victim of a broken system? Nick doesn’t know, and this is his show, so I’m not allowed to tell.

Joan Doethan is overweight and overworked, and Nick is almost positive the first is because of the second. The vestiges of youth and beauty show between the lines of her face, but her softness is due to excess sweets. He knows because he can smell it on her, the scent of sucralose-coated regret. If he were kinder, he might feel some sort of sympathy for the deer, but the look she gives him as he approaches tells him everything he needs to know. Nick is not kind, and he hopes he can somehow frame her for the theft when it all goes down.

“We don’t need any more foxes,” she tells him, cutting off his spiel before he can begin. That’s okay, though. He’s planned for this.

“I figured this might happen,” he says, slumping and pretending he doesn’t see her trying to give back his application. It allows Finnick to peek around Nick’s leg, looking as curious as a child should. “You probably run a tight ship, am I right? You’re probably not interested in paying someone five bucks an hour to take on cleaning or serving jobs; I’m sure the normal pay is four at best.”

Her interest is immediately piqued, as he knew it would be. Prongs Co is highly-rated by clients, but there’s an entire online forum for staff to moan about how terrible it is to work there. They pay minimum wage to all of their employees, no matter what their title or how long they’ve been working, and offering to work for five an hour – it would have to be under the table, if she accepts, which she can easily write off as “business expenses paid in cash” – will probably be too good to resist.

He makes his eyes and muzzle do the pathetic thing he’s perfected over the years. “I know how foxes are supposed to be...trust me, I know how shifty we can get. My kit’s mom isn’t in the picture anymore, and I just...I need little Ollie to have some kind of image of gainful employment, you know? After what she did, I need him to...I’m sorry. It isn’t your business. I’d do anything for a job, though. I’ll stay out of sight! I’ll clean the bathrooms! Heck, I’d even help out with heavy lifting if it meant I had a job. _Please_ give me a chance.”

“I...suppose I might be able to find a place for you,” she muses, obviously pretending to look through her list, “since you’re so willing to work.”

 _“Thank you,”_ he gushes.

“Just don’t spread it around. I have _standards.”_

“You won’t regret this, I promise. When should I show up? What do you want me to do? What-”

“Keep your pants on.” She sighs, rubbing her ear. “Noon tomorrow, you report to Darien in cleaning. And by the Great Prince, _don’t_ wear that ridiculous ensemble.”

Nick looks down at his greenish Tommy Bapawma shirt and striped tie. It’s probably not as professional as he’s supposed to look at a job interview, but he’s going for easy-going and unassuming. Clothes like these make mammals perceive him as nonthreatening. “Absolutely, Ma’am. Thank you again.”

“Get out,” she says flatly, and he does.

Mammals are easy to manipulate. Targeting imaginary “inherent goodness” doesn’t work, but _guilt_ does. Mammals are inherently terrible and most of them feel horribly guilty about it. If that appeal doesn’t work, appealing to inherent selfishness works, too. Nick applied both of these to Joan, and it worked like a charm.

It always does.

“We’re in,” he says, smiling down at Finnick. Technically, he didn’t need Finnick to be there, but the physical presence of a child tends to do things to otherwise immovable animals. Children are small and cute and vulnerable, and for some reason, the majority of animals have an innate drive to protect and care for children, even when those children are not their own. Nick doesn’t get it, but he doesn’t need to understand it to use it.

“Yeah, okay, ya got hired, _congratu-fuckin’-lations._ I’m still unclear about what _my_ role in all of this is. We planned for me to be ya kit, but so far I’m a prop.”

“I’m just establishing you as my responsibility today so nobody will be surprised tomorrow. Three days from now, you’re going to set up an entry point for me and then make a mess. I’ll get fired and we’ll get out of there before the party starts. Then, after the party is over, I’ll go in and get the opal using the entry point you made.”

“That’s the plan, but why do you need me in the _outfit?_ Honestly I could just wander in at any time and stay out of view. You wouldn’t have even had to get hired in the first place.”

Nick shrugs. “It’s just safer. A kit gets caught where he shouldn’t be, he gets moved. Maybe spanked, if the mammal who finds him is particularly revolting, but ultimately that’s the end of it. An adult fox caught in the wrong place and the wrong time? You’ll be lucky if you _make_ it to jail, my friend.”

Finnick shudders in obvious revulsion as Nick picks him up and plops him into the stroller. The truth is, Nick doesn’t really understand why Finn has such a hangup about it. He was willing enough to dress up back when they were planning to hustle treats to small mammals, but _now_ he has pride? Pride makes you stupid. It makes you weak.

“You won’t have to wear a collar,” Nick offers quietly, turning down an alley. Nobody likes to use alleys anymore, since they make great cover for crimes, but they’re convenient for getting around, especially for small mammals like him. According to the scent of blood, someone got attacked recently, but he can’t see or sense any danger lingering. “Kits don’t get collars until they’re old enough to withstand the electricity.”

“Yeah, but isn’t that...dangerous?”

“Maybe a little, but c’mon, Finn, if you catch the disease, what’s the worst you can do? Nibble someone’s knees?”

“I’mma bite your face off first thing if it happens,” Finnick promises, which is good enough.

Not knowing who’s genetically predisposed to the disease – and it has to be a disease, because Nick absolutely refuses to believe it’s just biological imperative resurfacing after a zillion years of civilization and higher reasoning directing the interactions of mammalkind, not to mention that the “savagery” presents similarly in every mammal, even the small ones who’d be more inclined to hide than attack – means that he has to assume everyone _could_ be. Nick could be. Finn could be. His mother could be. The truth is, he’s a small mammal, but he could do a lot of damage. If a larger mammal regressed, Nick could get torn apart in an instant. Everyone is scared on some level, predator and prey alike. But as bad as the terror is, the uncertainty is the worst.

As much as he hates to admit it, Honey has a point: if they can isolate the problem, what makes predators _different_ from prey, maybe – just _maybe –_ they can develop a cure, or a vaccine, or something. It’s clearly been contained to Zootopia, because there haven’t been any regressions in other countries or even other areas of Animalia. They could do something. The next generation could forgo the shock collars. Nobody would have to worry about what they might do to their neighbors, or what their neighbors might do to them. Predators could be politicians and cops and business owners and lawyers again.

Alternatively, all it would take is _one_ savage prey mammal to prove that all mammals are at risk. They’d have to either collar everyone, or not collar anyone. Suddenly, he has the worrying thought that perhaps prey _have_ regressed before, but it was hushed up by the higher-ups. That’s probably the most horrifying thing he’s considered thus far, not because of the implications of savage prey, but the implications of such deep-seated, systemic prejudice. Prey have always been the majority. What if they’re hushing up prey savagery? _Someone_ would blow the whistle...right? Someone like Wendy Applebaum or Dawn Bellwether or Shaun Handle, the prey who ostensibly believe in equal rights, would surely say something.

_If they knew about it._

Nick shudders. He’s never been a conspiracy theorist, but recent events have sent him spiraling, questioning everything. Is this what Honey feels _all the time?_ No wonder she keeps herself busy with her hacking and volunteer hours at the Happytown clinic. He may be in his head more than he is anywhere else, but it’s rare that he gets _this_ paranoid. Nick breathes deeply and pushes the stroller through a hole in the gate, or at least he tries to, but something blocks his path. He huffs, walks around it, and blanches.

Lying in a heap on the ground, dressed in an oversized brown jacket and a calf-length blue skirt which are both ripped all to hell, is Cooper. It’s her blood he smelled when they first entered the alley; it’s certainly potent, and flowing sluggishly from a nasty hole in her shoulder.

“Oh my God,” he breathes, strings of what might be actual panic running through him as he rips apart the baby blanket to bandage the worst of the cuts as best he can. “Oh my God, oh shit, _what do I do?_ Finn, get up, take off your costume, I need the stroller. You run ahead to Honey’s clinic, tell them to clear a space for a trauma case, but don’t tell them her name.”

“It’s a bunny,” Finnick says sharply, climbing down anyway. “You really think the Happytown Care Center is the best place to take _tiny prey?”_

“This is the Cooper girl. You can’t really see through the blood unless you know what you’re looking for, but I’d know that muzzle anywhere. I’d be willing to bet she doesn’t have insurance, and anyway, do you really think I can take a missing mammal to Zootopia General and not get taken down for kidnapping, or at the very least assault? The idiots on the force don’t ask questions, they shoot first and make up answers later.”

Finnick says, almost gently, “You _could_ leave her here. She’s turning into a thorn in our side.”

“I’m not that kind of animal,” Nick snaps, picking up the bunny as carefully as possible and setting her into the stroller. He arranges her as best he can before pulling the stroller top down to shield her from view. “Neither should you be. That makes us no better than the shitmouths who use _us_ as stepping stones. Maybe I used to be like that, but we live in a different world now. Anyway what about honor among thieves?”

“There is none, but whatever,” Finnick says, rolling his eyes. Well, Nick can’t see it, but he knows Finn well enough to know it’s happening. “Your stupid optimism is gonna get you killed one day, but it’s no fur off my ears. Don’t go too fast or you’ll jostle her neck. Trust me, I know.”

Nick pushes the stroller slowly but steadily, watching Finnick’s back as he races off. Fennecs aren’t the fastest animals, but Finn is in good enough shape that he’ll be able to make it to the clinic much sooner than Nick will, and hopefully they’ll have a place for the bunny bleeding out in his stroller.

Oh God, there’s a bunny bleeding out in his stroller.

He knows his collar is probably blinking yellow by now, pulsing with the beat of his heart. He needs to get himself under control before they reach a more populated area, but there is a bunny bleeding out in his stroller and someone will smell the blood and what if he gets stopped? Maybe he should have called an ambulance and gotten the hell out of there, but everything he said to Finnick is true. He can’t sell her out. The Care Center is the closest thing they have to a hospital in Happytown, and if Honey’s there she’ll be able to treat the bunny’s wounds. Maybe. Honey was studying to be an ID physician, but surely she covered trauma, right? Or stab wounds, or whatever this is?

Deep breaths. In, out. If he acts like nothing is amiss, nobody will think anything is amiss.

He forces a vacant smile onto his face, making brief eye contact with animals who seek it out but otherwise examining the scenery as though he’s too bored to do much else. It’s one of Nick’s least favorite pastimes, but he’s good at pretending to be the iconic “absentminded father” shown on pretty much every sitcom ever.

The sight of the clinic is a welcome one, as is Finnick’s frantic waving from the doorway. Nick pushes the stroller through and bypasses the front desk, no doubt drawing the ire of the waiting patrons. The smart ones will smell the blood and not make a scene. It’s overwhelming by this point, but if it’s getting stronger, that means the bunny is still alive.

“Room 201,” says a nurse in blue scrubs. “Follow me. What’s the name of the patient?”

“Judith,” he replies, hoping that will give her identity at least some protection. An act of professional courtesy, from one thief to another.

“Okay, help me lift her onto the bed. We need to keep her as still as possible – oh, good, you tried to staunch some of the bleeding – do you know what happened?”

“She was just...there on the ground,” he says faintly. “I almost ran over her with my stroller. I’ve never seen this kind of damage before...what...what could _do_ that? Better yet, what _would_ do that? Oh God, is she going to die?”

“Can’t know for sure until we check her over. Get it together, Fox, we need to undress her and I can’t deal with a sparkler as well. Hold her down while I cut her clothes,” says the ocelot flatly.

“Shouldn’t you get another medical professional to help?” He’s _not_ panicking. “I know literally nothing about-”

“You want to tear someone away from patients, be my guest, but there are only three animals on staff today and I’m the only one who’s actually got experience with trauma. Now _help_ me.”

“Sorry. Okay.” He takes another deep breath and pushes lightly on Cooper’s shoulders, holding her steady so that the nurse can do his job. He averts his eyes – it seems a little obscene to look at her while she’s unconscious – and studies her face. It’s covered in blood, but there are no obvious head wounds. Did she rub her face with bloody paws...or is it someone else’s? He hopes it’s the second. She’s definitely sturdy enough to take care of herself, so if she didn’t have time to fight back, that probably means another regression. _Another_ animal caught the disease. Then again, she did have time to drag herself into a secluded alley, which might indicate a purposeful attack.

“Okay, knife slashes on her chest and thighs, and a deep stab in her shoulder. It looks worse than it is; I’m guessing she passed out from the pain, not blood loss, but I’m barely even a nurse, I can’t do more than treat the problems I see. I called Madge; she should be here soon. Listen, I need to ask you a personal question.”

“Okay,” says Nick hesitantly.

“Are you...involved?”

“No, but I do know her. Peripherally. We see each other around sometimes.”

“So she doesn’t live with you?”

“Um…” He shrugs, perplexed. “I don’t know where she lives. I don’t even know her last name; I’m pretty sure _I’m Judith Rabbit_ was a joke. We know each other in a professional capacity. Same line of work, different employer. Why is any of that relevant?”

“You seem far too invested to be strangers, and she has _that_ smell on her. She lives here in Happytown, or at least she lives right on the border. I smell you on her too, so I just needed to ask. If we have to transfer her to Zootopia General, only family will be able to visit, and the first thing they’re going to ask is why she smells strongly of fox. The intake receptionists at the ER are elephants.”

He sighs, looking away, hoping this works. “Fine, all right. We’re involved, but it’s not really...something either of us wants to get out. I know Honey; she’ll vouch for me, okay? But I shouldn’t be Judith’s emergency contact. You know how it is. The cops will say I’m taking advantage of her and other predators will say she’s taking advantage of me.”

“Is there any truth to that?”

 _“Hey,”_ he retorts, a bit of a growl in his voice. “What consenting adults do is none of your business.”

The nurse holds up his paws. “I have to ask. Based on what I can see, she’s had a _lot_ of cuts sutured, wounds deep enough to scar. It looks like either systematic abuse or...a dangerous profession, which would be unusual for a rabbit. What did you say you do for a living?”

“I’m in acquisitions,” he says, sliding his eyes down Cooper’s body to see the scars for himself. Some of them, now that the nurse has wiped away the blood, look old and just as nasty as the ones she received today. “Judith is more of a retrieval specialist. We really did meet through work.”

“Do you know who her employer is?”

“Not a damn clue, and we agreed to keep it that way. You can’t say you’re dating competition if you don’t know.”

The ocelot snorts. “What kind of acquisition do you _do,_ Fox?”

“Mostly heirlooms and antiques. My employer is a collector; he sends me out to find interesting things and bring them back to him. I may be a fox, but I’ve been _told_ that I could charm the quills off a porcupine.”

“Is it a safe business?”

Nick nods. “Reasonably, if you know who to avoid. Some animals don’t take kindly to foxes poking around, but it’s not a bad gig overall, and most won’t attack if you introduce yourself as an agent.”

“Then can you explain Judith’s injuries?”

“I can’t. It’s not as though we’ve seen each other...unclothed yet. Our relationship is relatively new.”

“That explains the lack of sexy underwear,” says the ocelot, waving his hand, “but not the smell of fox all over her.”

“Her sister is a fox.” Nick has no idea whether or not she spends time with Carmelita Montoya, but he assumes she does, since the former INTERPOL agent is a known associate of the older Cooper. “Well, adoptive sister, obviously. Aren’t you going to stitch her up or give her medication or something?”

“I can’t.” The apology is obvious in the nurse’s voice. “I’ve never worked on a mammal this small. I don’t want to screw it up.”

Nick scowls. “Well-”

Honey opens the door without knocking, takes in Nick’s hovering with only mild surprise, and says, “Out, Jones.”

The nurse starts. “But-”

“I said _out.”_ The ocelot, Jones, obeys promptly, shutting the door behind him. Honey grimaces at Cooper. “I swear by the goddess, Nick, if you’re the one who lands her here every other week, I will _end_ you.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Nick replies defensively, paws up. “I found her in an alley. I couldn’t just leave her there. Wait, every other _week?”_

Cooper must have a side job if she gets injured that often. Sneak thieves, especially _good_ ones, rarely come away from a job with more than a scratch from a rosebush. He’s seen her in action, and with her skill level, there’s no conceivable way she’s getting injured regularly in her...heists.

Honey shakes her head. “Doctor-patient confidentiality. I just had to be sure it wasn’t you.”

Almost insulted, he asks her, “Do you really think I’m the type?”

“I don’t know a damn thing about you, Nick, other than that you’re a thief. A professional liar. We’ve worked together twice to get bigger scores and you come to me for information, but I don’t know you on a personal level. You could sell someone their own incisors. It’s not impossible that you charmed Alice into your bed and talk her into staying. Of course I don’t _believe_ you’re prone to abuse, but my feelings on the matter are entirely irrelevant.”

“I’ve only seen her three times including today,” he says, understanding her thoughts and irritated by it anyway. “Hang on, who’s Alice?”

As Honey begins the process of closing the wounds, she answers, “The bunny, you idiot.”

“Her name’s not Alice, which is why I brought her here. We’re in the same line of work, if you know what I mean,” he says, giving her a pointed look before returning his gaze to Cooper’s extensive injuries. He can feel revulsion welling in his stomach. What could possibly keep her doing whatever it is she’s doing? Is she trapped? Is it her mentor? Not that he cares, necessarily, but if another major player is _that_ violent…

“This is the Cooper girl? Shit.” Nobody ever accused Honey of being slow on the uptake. She bandages the hole in Cooper’s shoulder and sighs. “I thought we knew each other. She promised me she wasn’t in any sort of abusive relationship. I should have listened, maybe. Nick, I need someone to watch over her until she wakes up. I know it’s inconvenient and _highly_ inappropriate, but we’re understaffed and you’re the one who brought her here. Can you do that?”

He doesn’t know how well Cooper will take waking up to a strange fox, but on the other hand, it might be interesting to get to know Laverne Cooper the mammal, not Laverne Cooper the thief. If nothing else, he’ll be able to seek out any potential weaknesses to use as leverage if something bad happens or they cross paths again. “Yeah, I can stay. I, sort of, told that nurse that we were involved, so I doubt he’ll question me.”

Honey makes a funny sound in her throat and pulls a blanket over Cooper’s still form. “You always were a little off, Wilde.”

“You love it.”

“I love the money,” she corrects. “Tell Jones when she wakes up and he’ll get me a message. Maybe this time we’ll get answers out of her.”

Unconscious, the bunny looks so _small._ On a job, at least from what he’s seen, she has a presence that fills up the room, making her seem larger than she is. But now, tucked into a wolf-sized bed, she looks as tiny as she really is. Nick doesn’t know what to think about that. Was it really just two nights ago that he was ogling her backside?

Come to think of it, what was that about? He doesn’t _ogle,_ especially a rabbit who stole his score. He can dress it up all he likes – he was looking at her musculature, he was in awe of her strength, he was trying to figure out how she could move with such grace – but there’s no denying that he looked a little too long without cataloguing her potential strengths and weaknesses. He _really_ hopes he doesn’t have some kind of undiscovered rabbit fetish. That would be almost as speciesist as it would be inconvenient.

He’s been staring into space for who knows how long when the bunny stirs. Soon after, her eyes open and he leans over, curious about the color of her irises. He guessed, back in the dark of the museum and the house, that they were blue. Not so, apparently; they’re a beautiful purple color _(amethyst,_ the long-suppressed romantic in him puts in unhelpfully). She gives him a look of awe, which is...confusing.

“So pretty,” she murmurs, and clearly she’s still a little loopy from the pain, or possibly whatever Honey put into her IV. Nick doesn’t know anything about medicines, or medical procedures, or even the difference between saline and salt water, so it’s possible that drip’s full of morphine.

“Hey, Rabbit. Do you know where you are?”

“Th’ clinic,” she slurs, managing a smug little smile. “I made it.”

“Only because I found you unconscious in an alley, covered in blood.”

Her smile falls and she focuses on him, even as her eyes seem to relax. “D'ye know 'f Emily and Raphael goddaway?”

“I don’t know who that is. Hang on, I’m supposed to get the nurse now that you’re awake.”

 _“Wait,_ Mr. Wilde.”

He frowns at the implications of Cooper knowing his name. Does she know that he’s the same fox who stole Bellwether’s journal? What _else_ does she know about him? “How do you know that name?”

“Ev'rbody in Happytown knows Nick Wilde. Y'r a legend.” She laughs, but it sounds faint. “Why’d y' bring me here? ’S dangerous f'r a fox t' carry a bloody bunny."

He shrugs, moving toward the door. “The alternative was leaving you there. That was a lot of blood, Alice.”

“Lots 'f it wasn’ mine.”

“Color me relieved,” he says dryly. “What were you even _doing_ to get stabbed, anyway?”

She grins, practically beatific. “Mak'n th' world a better place.”

“The world is a hole,” he advises flatly, “and there’s nothing you or anybody else can do to change that.”

He leaves the door open when he goes to get Nurse Jones, but he doesn’t go back in. Something about Cooper puts him on edge, and he doesn’t want to think about what that might be.

* * *

Finnick’s tantrum truly was a thing of beauty, full of screams and incoherent babble. Nick, ever the actor, pretended he was embarrassed by Ollie Junior’s behavior, slumping with his ears and shoulders both, and maybe Joan Doethan will forevermore have a negative impression of fox kits, but at least they have their entry point ready to go.

This is going to be _the_ heist. He can’t count the collar job, since Cooper swooped in and took it, but _this..._ if he’s lucky, nobody will ever connect him to the theft, but he hopes they’ll be talking about it for decades. Now, what to do until it’s time to steal the Heart of the Galaxy?

Well...

The book is sturdy and monogrammed with Dawn Bellwether’s name. He knew that Bellwether was in bed with Gooseberry (for presumably slick political reasons, given her upcoming platform), but it’s odd that _her_ journal – or whatever this is – would be in Gooseberry’s safe. He hasn’t had time to read it, considering all the preparation he and Finnick have been doing, but now that the opal is just a waiting game, it’s as perfect a time as any.

To his disappointment, the first few pages are basically word salad, nonsense strung together in vague sentences like _Grasshoppers run into large gingerbread houses with duck songs._ He almost gives up, but then he comes across a date preceding a block of clearly-coded text:

_09/16/2008_

_Ovl hlnvgrnvh xzooh nv Hnvoodvgsvi yvxzfhv sv’h hvxivgob zm vovevm-bvzi-low, yfg sv izrhvw srh kzd gl nv glwzb dsvm R xzoovw srn Orlmuzig rm ivhklmhv. Sv’w szw z gviiryov wzb, ufoo lu mvtlgrzgrlmh drgs gsv ivtivhhrerhg rwrlgh uiln Wvviyillpv. R fmwvihgzmw dsb sv’w olhv xlmgilo lu srh gvnkvi, zmw sv wrwm’g glfxs nv, yfg rg wrw uirtsgvm nv. Gsrmprmt zylfg rg zugvi gsv uzxg, kzig lu nv yvorvevh gszg sv hrnkob kzfhvw rm srh szyrgfzo nlev gl ifm srh kzd gsilfts srh nzmv, yfg uli gsv gdl hvxlmwh sv szw srh kzd izrhvw rm gsv zri, R dzh gviirurvw. Sv xlfow proo nv drgs z hrmtov hdzg. R wlm’g gsrmp sv’h jfrgv xltmrazmg lu gszg, vevm gslfts sv’h z hnzig nznnzo levizoo. R’ev svokvw olxp fk hnzoovi nznnzoh uli hrnrozi zhhzfogh, yfg ru R kivhhvw gsv rhhfv, dsl dlfow gzpv gsv Nzbli’h hvzg? Nv? R wlm’g szev mvziob vmlfts jfzorurxzgrlmh li vckvirvmxv._

_R hgzig sviv yvxzfhv R’n dliirvw zylfg dszg’h szkkvmrmt. R’n z kiltivhhrerhg gsilfts zmw gsilfts, yfg R’ev yvvm szermt gilfyovhlnv gslftsgh, zmw R uvzi R’n olhrmt hrtsg lu dsb R ovug nb klhrgrlm gl uloold Ovl rmgl luurxv. Gsv ivtivhhrerhgh (gsvb orpv gl xzoo gsvnhvoevh gizwrgrlmzorhgh, yfg ovg’h uzxv rg, gsvb’iv yzxphorwvih rwvzorarmt z kzhg gszg mvevi vcrhgvw) ziv tildrmt nliv zmw nliv elxzo zh dv kirlirgrav vjfzorgb levi uzelirgrhn, zmw R urmw nbhvou xzftsg yvgdvvm wfvormt rwvloltrvh gszg ylgs hvvn xliivxg uli wruuvivmg ivzhlmh. Zh z hnzoo hsvvk zmw z uvnzov, R fmwvihgzmw yvggvi gszm lmv dlfow gsrmp gszg xrero irtsgh lftsg gl zkkob gl zoo nznnzoh, mlg qfhg gsv lmvh dsl yvmvurggvw nlhg uiln gsv Urihg Ztivvnvmgh. Lm gsv lgsvi sllu, R xzm’g hszpv gsv uvvormt R tvg dsvmvevi z yvzi dzoph yvsrmw nv. R xzm’g ulitvg gsv hrxp hnvoo lu gsv gfmz hzmwdrxsvh Tvhz orpvh hl nfxs. R xzm tl sllu gl srmwkzd drgs Tivtlib Hklgghlm rm gsv xlfigilln, yfg dsvm sv hgzmwh mvcg gl nv lfghrwv lu rg, vevib rmxs lu nv rh zdziv gszg R zn kivb. Sv szh hfxs z prmw, tvmgov wvnvzmli. Ru sv dviv hsvvk-hszkvw, R nrtsg zhp srn uli xluuvv, vevm ru sv rh z kfyorx wvuvmwvi. Yfg yvsrmw srh hlug hnrovh ziv gsv hznv gvvgs gszg fhvw gl irk rmgl gsv uovhs lu nb zmxvhglih. Lmv xzivovhh dzev lu srh kzd zmw sv xlfow tfg nv, zmw sv’w uvvo gviiryob tfrogb zylfg rg, yfg R dlfow hgroo yv wvzw._

_Rh gsviv z dzb gl pvvk gsrh xrgb vjfzo dsrov kilgvxgrmt kivb uiln kivwzglih? R wlm’g gsrmp gsvb’iv zoo hzeztvh, yfg blf wlm’g mvvw gl yv z hzeztv gl zxg orpv lmv. Zoo rg gzpvh rh z hrmtov yzw wzb, orpv glwzb. Ovl dlfow **mvevi** szin nv lm kfiklhv. Gszg wlvhm’g nvzm sv xzm’g szev zm zxxrwvmg._

He flips forward in the journal to see that woven into the nonsense sentences are several encoded entries, preceded by dates that are very far apart. What a bust. He could probably eventually figure out what kind of code (or codes; any mammal paranoid enough to encipher and hide her journal is probably smart enough to use different codes for different entries) Bellwether used and maybe even translate it, but he doesn’t have _time._ Maybe after they sell the opal, he can. He could also give it to Honey, but the problem with Honey is that she has a warped moral compass. She’s a bleeding-heart hacker, willing to use her technical expertise to commit crimes to fund her charity ventures, but she likes Dawn Bellwether for her attempts to defend predators from the ills of the system and would probably return the book through the lost-and-found.

Who else is good with codes? He’s not sure he knows anyone. Finnick doesn’t even like crosswords, and while it’s possible Ruth could have figured it out, it’s not like she can read anymore. Oh well. He’ll come back to it later.

Ruth is sleeping and Finnick is sulking, so there’s no one to talk to. It’s not that he loves talking – well, that’s not true, he wouldn’t survive as a grifter otherwise – but for all that foxes are supposed to be solitary animals, Nick hasn’t ever been that type. He needs solitude sometimes, but as a general rule, the more animals he connects with, the happier he is. He has a reputation for knowing everyone, and it’s not just because he’s good at watching and remembering. He knows how to be friendly, how to impress mammals, how to communicate with them. It makes him a great salesmammal and consequently a great conmammal, and maybe a lot of what he does is just an act, but he wouldn’t do it if he didn’t enjoy it on some level.

So maybe he’s turned out more like his mother than his father. It’s to be expected. After all, she _did_ raise him, even if he’s not happy about how she did it.

Nick takes a deep breath, holds it, and rests his head on his paws. He has to clear his head. Tonight’s the night, and if he can stop thinking, nothing could possibly ruin it now.

* * *

The thing about the Hoofstadts, Nick thinks disdainfully, is that they are predictable. Top-of-the-line security, as good as money can buy, is made of cameras and motion sensors and probably even pressure sensors, if the alarms set off by Finnick’s well-placed tantrum earlier are any indication. But they also want their privacy, so there are plenty of blind spots – such as the bathrooms – and no physical security. In today’s age of automation, competent security teams have become rarer, but Nick thinks that’s stupid. A camera can’t replace a guard any more than a red marble can replace a cherry. Even with all this security, it would still be several minutes before a police team could arrive, should anyone be detected; long enough to make the job a smash and grab, as inelegant as that is.

Not that he intends to be inelegant. He just knows, from working the house earlier, the best place to hide while the family drives themselves crazy trying to find the intruder.

He crawls through the bathroom window, wincing as his back cracks. It’s not often that he feels his age, but when he does, it’s always because of his back. All those years of sleeping wherever he could find shelter, back before Ruth sparked violently and lost her vision, were clearly not good for him. He suspects there’s some lasting damage from the times he’s forced a spark for jobs, as well; that can’t be healthy. The first models were…well, more _effective,_ but also more likely to kill the mammal wearing them. One of Dawn Bellwether’s first little social projects was to convince the Gooseberry Administration to refine the TAME system, which he assumed at the time was in respect to Lionheart, but now he wonders if maybe she’s been working up to running for Mayor since the beginning. It seems like a respectably slick plan, especially since – should she run – she’s got his vote; otherwise, he’ll have to vote for Gooseberry Mark II, which would be intolerable.

It's just a quick shuffle from one spot to another as the panning cameras do their thing, and then Nick is inside the main area. This is inarguably the most difficult bit; he has to get from the doorway to the far end of the room within six seconds and then, without setting off any of the pressure sensors, hunker down behind it while he removes the tiny lock on the back. He can pick locks if he has to, but this one – at least according to his data, which is remarkably thorough for the slapdash way he gathered it over the past few months – isn’t connected to anything sensitive, and he can just use the bolt cutters in his pack to snip the lock off entirely. After all, he doesn’t need to leave the space untouched; he’s stealing their _prize possession._ They’ll notice immediately.

This is very, _very_ new. Once again, he’s thrilled in a way that would be dangerous, had he not stashed his collar and the key outside in the bushes. He couldn’t help it. Freedom is terrifyingly addictive.

Crouching down on all fours, which is something he’d never have considered even three months ago, he readies himself for the six-second dash. Using all four limbs makes him faster and more agile; he’s agile enough to take a flying leap, the kind he likes to imagine his ancestors used, and clear the pressure-sensitive area in one go. Five seconds.

Five seconds.

It took him five seconds on all fours to do what would have taken at least nine or ten had he moved like a civilized mammal. And it was _exhilarating._ Do sneak thieves use their ancestral talents to their advantage? Does Cooper?

(Why is he thinking about that?)

Focusing on the task at hand, he tucks himself neatly behind the display case, taking advantage of the weak spot in the pressure system, and draws his bolt cutters out of his pouch. The snip is louder than he expected it to be, but that may be because there is hardly any noise in the room…except for…shifting? Fabric? What _is_ that? He looks to the left and the right, but there’s nothing. Then he looks up and only just contains an angry growl. _Again?_

Cooper’s not getting the prize this time. He can see that she has some substance tucked into her ear-holes, likely to minimize distractions, which is _perfect;_ she’s not looking at him. She _doesn’t know he’s here._ He begins to cut the glass quickly, hoping to reach inside the hole before she notices him. Maybe she’ll look around and see him leaving. Maybe she’ll give him that breathtaking angry look again. Ugh, maybe he’s sick.

Before he can get all the way around, he sees her paw reach in oh-so-neatly, deftly switching the opal for one of those stupid origami heads – _curse_ her smaller body, he’d probably have beaten her were their paws the same size – and suddenly, there is a wretched wail as _all the alarms go off._

The lights turn on and he looks up at the thief, looking smug in her harness. Nick really does growl this time. That, at least, gets her attention, and her eyes widen comically when she sees him. Her angry look _is_ pretty amazing still, and he can’t help but give a smug grin of his own when she takes out one of the silicon earbuds and says, _“You!”_

“Me,” he agrees. “You stole my prize. Again. Give it here; I _earned_ it. You just came in from the ceiling.”

Her ears twitch in the direction of the bedrooms and she lets out a frustrated noise. Nick isn’t quite worried; he’s covered enough that nobody will recognize him, and he can smash the far window to get away. Surprising him, she tells him, “Grab on, if you don’t want to get caught. Doesn’t matter if you step on the sensors anymore, now that I’ve set off everything.”

“You set off the alarms on _purpose?”_

“No sense in stealing something if you don’t let anyone know. Now _grab on.”_

“I’m on the move,” says Finnick through their comm. He’s been so quiet that Nick almost forgot he was there as a getaway driver. “Sorry, kit, but we’re screwed. Comm me if you get out okay and we’ll rendezvous at the usual place.”

Instead of arguing, he takes another leap and grabs onto the bunny’s harness. She pushes a button and the shoot up to the ceiling, which has off-white ropes criss-crossed across it. Her harness is attached to a hook in the ceiling, also painted off-white to match the ceiling. He didn’t notice anything amiss when he was working the mansion earlier. When did she have time to _rig_ all of this? He follows her through the tangle of rope through a movable hole in the upper wall, managing to be much less graceful than she is, until they reach the second-floor balcony. They huddle together for a moment in silent realization that they both want the same object, before he lunges at her.

The bunny sidesteps, quicker than any mammal he’s seen move thus far, and jabs his diaphragm with a surprisingly heavy upward strike. His breath leaves him in a whining wheeze and he swipes with a paw, which she grabs and twists behind his back. Kneeling on the other arm makes him unable to move if he doesn’t want to break his own shoulder. The entire exchange takes only a few seconds, and Nick is left in the humiliating position of having been wrestled into submission by a tiny crazy bunny.

Something goes off in his mind, leaving him panting in a way that has nothing to do with physical exertion. He _really_ doesn’t want to have to think about that right now. Or ever.

“Fucking hell, Fluff,” he chokes.

“If I let you up, are you gonna attack me again, or should I actually break a bone?”

“God, you’re nuts. I won’t attack you. But we gotta get going.”

“I agree.” The pressure lets up and in its place is _sweet relief_ and just a tidge of loss. She gently helps him up with the arm that _isn’t_ slowly falling asleep. “Come on, my partner’s waiting outside. We can get away with minimal fuss.”

“I have something stashed under the bushes on the east side,” he says. “I _have_ to get it before I leave or I’m ruined.”

“My partner will get it while you and I get out. Jack, did you hear that? Yeah, bushes, east side. Meet at the van.” She checks him over, nods, and pushes through a hole in the balcony poles. Fortunately, they’re both small mammals. “Now that I’ve _saved_ you, how about a name?”

“Like I’d tell you,” he shoots back, “but _your_ name interests me. It figures you’d be named for the goddess of thieves.”

“Please, I had a sister named Moondancer,” she tells him with a sharp laugh. “I’m pretty sure my parents weren’t thinking about symbolism when they picked out names for each of their three hundred children. Okay, follow me and be silent.”

He salutes and replies sarcastically, “Yes, Ma'am.”

They’re about twelve feet off the ground, and it shouldn’t be terrifying, but it is. With a large smile, she asks, “Can you jump down?”

He looks at her sideways and hopes her weak eyes can still pick up on his incredulity. “Are you kidding me, Little Carrot? We’re in the sky!”

“Ugh, okay, put this in your ear,” she tells him, pressing an earbud into his paw. It’s nicer than the ones he and Finnick use. “I’ll jump and guide you down on the climb.”

Then, she jumps. It’s actually quite the spectacle, a tiny bunny almost diving toward the ground. At the last moment, she bends her knees, lands on her toes, and rolls forward, using momentum to cushion her fall. He replaces his usual earbud with Cooper’s comm and listens for her voice, which comes through promptly. “Okay, grab the side with your paws and put your left foot on the little ledge below. Good. Now move your right paw down to the bottom of the shaft and your left paw to the indent to the side. Put your right foot on the decorative rock. Shift your weight to the side a little; there will be a bit of bending involved in this next one.”

He follows her instructions to the letter, ignoring the fear thrumming through his body. He doesn’t like climbing, and he doesn’t like feeling exposed, and his arms are _exhausted_ from climbing the rope, but what else can he do? He’s not stupid enough to pridefully refuse her help, and she seemed dedicated enough to getting them both out of there, for whatever reason. His legs wobble with the sudden loss of adrenaline when his feet hit solid ground, and she’s there to support him. “All right, come on. Our van’s just on the other side of this dumb picket fence. I made a nice tunnel early this morning, so...well, I might have to widen it a little for you. Are you claustrophobic?”

“No.”

“Good. Follow me. Just a little bit longer and we can jet out of here.”

Once they’re on the other side – it was a tight fit, but most mammals underestimate the sheer amount of fluff foxes have covering their relatively thin bodies – Cooper leads him to a sleek black van, whose rear doors are open. They both hop inside, and as soon as she closes the doors, the van takes off, silent, into the night.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, and his heart pounds with the rush of relief. He may have failed his objective, but at least he’s free, alive, and probably as safe as he can be with two thieves.

“Right? That was the _best,”_ she replies cheerfully, completely misinterpreting him. She removes her comm, harness, and finally, her mask. “I _live_ for this.”

Her gray fur looks soft, even in the moonlight. Her grin would, in any other circumstance, be contagious. “Hey, Jack, say hello to our tagalong. He’s a good sport. A little slow, but a good sport. He’s also wretched at paw-to-paw. Mr. Mystery, this is Jack, my partner in, well, crime, I guess. Wow. I’ve never said _that_ out loud. He’s the one who’s going to reverse-”

“Don’t _tell_ him, Jude,” says a voice from the front.

Amused, Nick asks, “Jude, huh?”

“Dammit, Jack.” She gives Nick a helpless shrug. “Might as well let you call me Judy too, since you know anyway. Of course, now that you know Jack, I’m gonna have to kill you.”

His heart pounds. They’re not _really_ killers, are they? Then again, just a couple of days ago, _Judy_ was sludging blood from a hole in her shoulder, and now she seems to be perfectly fine. What kind of insanity is he involved in?

“I’m sorry, that was probably in poor taste. I’m not going to kill you. We don’t kill anyone. We’re thieves, not murderers.” She presses on his shoulder joint and he yelps. “Oof, maybe I was a little too forceful. Sorry about that too. In all fairness, you were trying to steal my prize.”

“No, _you_ stole _my_ prize. Twice. For reasons unknown, possibly within the realm of the nefarious.”

“Yep, definitely nefarious, though not dangerous for you.” Judy shrugs and tosses the opal once. He tries to snatch it out of the air, but she gets to it first with a tiny smile. “And shut it, Jack, this guy is a thief, just like us. I’m guessing he’s not stealing the Heart of the Galaxy just to mess with the Hoofstadts, but he’s okay. _When he’s not stealing my loot.”_

“Hey, you’re the one who let me hug you,” he retorts without heat. He’s still pretty proud of that. “Anyway, I’ve been trying to figure out what you wanted with the first collar, and I can’t think of anything that doesn’t include frying our brains.”

She gives him a mildly disgusted look. It, irritatingly, sends a little flutter through his belly. “Please, my family is – was – half predators. We’re going to reverse engineer that nasty little stain on the panties of Zootopian history. Then we’re going to install passive disruptors on every street corner and every building. Think of it, Mr. Mystery: hundreds of carnivores and omnivores, wearing these things, but _somehow,_ none of them work. Oh no! Has our system failed? Has everything fallen to pieces? So there’s a massive product recall, and _that’s_ when we strike.”

Nick can’t help but laugh, and it lasts for a good long minute or two. She’s _absurd._ “Yeah, but – ha – there’s a flaw in your plan.”

“And what’s that?”

“Passive disruptors don’t work, and it’s against the law to plant commercial ones without permissions and licensing.”

“It’s called _civil disobedience,_ Sweetheart,” she tells him, and he recoils at the jeer. He sort of deserves it, but still. “Besides, who said anything about commercial disruptors? We’re manufacturing our own. Jack here’s more than just a getaway driver. He’d have degrees in mechanical engineering and computer science by now if we hadn’t been locked out of the university five years ago. Self-study probably gave him vastly more specific knowledge than general degrees.”

 _So much for the city where anyone can be anything,_ he thinks. That some prey species were hit almost as hard as predators is a bitter pill to swallow. Then again, knowing that you’re not alone generally makes it harder to wallow, doesn’t it? Maybe, he decides, learning about her might be easier if they _talk._ “What were you studying? You said _we.”_

She shrugs. “Well, I was studying Criminal Justice. I wanted to be a police officer. But when the TAME Act went into effect, I wanted nothing to do with such a corrupt system, so I transferred to ZU and switched majors to physics. I’ve always been good with numbers. I thought maybe I could show them that any mammal could do any job. But I got locked out when the Mammal Inclusion Initiative got passed, so...then I decided to become a thief.”

“A noble profession if I ever heard of one.”

“I didn’t think so at first, but my dad was a thief. The best, really. He came from a long line of them, and he taught us – me and Jack – everything he knew. I’ll never be as good as he was, though. I tend to get a little more punchy than is strictly necessary.”

“Yeah, I know. Intimately.”

“I _said_ I was sorry.”

Nick sits with her in the quiet for a few moments, before that curiosity strikes again. If he words this carefully, he might invite her to fill in the holes in the story her file didn’t tell. “I thought you said you had three hundred siblings or something. How did you and your – brother? Is Jack your brother? – end up with the Cooper Gang?”

“I’m originally from Bunnyburrow, as you know,” she explains quietly, “and Jack’s from Podunk. I was here in Zootopia doing a summer internship at City Hall when the walls went up. I got trapped. At first it was okay; I just transferred to the university here. Met Jack in my calc 2 class. We got into a lot of trouble together.”

“You got arrested,” he prompts.

She looks to the side. “I’m not ashamed of that. I _am_ ashamed to admit that I was too afraid to protest at first. I was scared. I didn’t really understand the gravity of what had happened, only that civil rights were being violated. I signed petitions, I did marches, but in the end, I was a bit of a coward. But then they locked us out, and I finally _got it._ I have a bit of a temper, I guess.”

“I know you got arrested for defending a predator, but I don’t know how that came about,” he lies. “Did you try to kill them with criminal cuteness?”

“I’m going to let that go, because tonight’s been a thrill ride, but _don’t_ call me cute,” she advises. “No, I was just…at this rally and there were some prey supremacy groups counter-protesting. One of the groups had ganged up on a vixen and they were just...going to town on her, kicking her, and all she could do was curl up and take it because fighting back would get her arrested even as she was sparking out.”

His breathing goes shallow. Yeah, he knows that situation all too well. Judy doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she’s blessedly sensitive enough not to mention it. “Anyway, I just...kind of saw red. There was ZPD presence and nobody was _doing anything._ This mammal could have _died_ from internal injuries and they just stood there gabbing! So I, uh, took initiative. I kind of attacked them. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe I should have tried to talk them down. But I’m better at doing than I am at talking, and it was just wrong. There was this mammal who was _helpless_ and they were _laughing_ and it was like I was looking at myself a decade prior and three of them ended up in the hospital and I couldn’t...I don’t care. I wanted them all to _die_ in that moment. I’m glad they didn’t, in retrospect, but yeah. Assault and battery charges for the _criminally cute bunny._ After I got out of the ICU, Jack found me a good lawyer who played up the rabbit angle, said it was the SSRIs I was on that made me _manic,_ bunnies are naturally empathetic and overly-emotional. Stripely intimated that I might be taking the blame for someone else because how could one _cute little bunny_ do that much damage to much larger mammals? I cut a deal during negotiations. It was unfair that I never spent a day in prison when carnivora are beaten and jailed for talking shit, but I knew I had to find a way to undermine the system. That’s when I found my dad.”

“Your dad came to Zootopia?”

“What? Oh.” She scoffs. “I think they disowned me when I got arrested. Not that Stu was ever anything more than a stupid coward, so maybe it’s good we didn’t talk after I fought those sheep. No, I’m talking about Sly, who you _must_ know at least professionally. _He’s_ the one who taught me how to sneak and steal without getting caught. And my mom...well, she was the one they’d been ganging up on. Before the TAME Act, she was _INTERPOL._ In Zootopia her credentials were useless; the ZPD wouldn’t believe that they weren’t forged and barred her from even entering unless she was in cuffs. I was so angry when I found out...but anyway, yeah. We were a family for a while. A little, broken family on the wrong side of the law, but a family nonetheless.”

Nick digests this information. Judy seems pretty solid. Painfully honest, yes, and possibly a little insane, but solid. And, unlike most advocates, she seems to put her money where her mouth is, so he can respect her for that, at least. After just a moment’s hesitation, he reaches up to untie his mask and adopts his usual pitch. “Well, Judy Laverne Cooper, my name’s Nick Wilde. It’s nice to meet you.”

Her answering squeal is high-pitched and obnoxious, and he immediately regrets saying anything. “Nick Wilde! You look just like I remember. Ooh, I _have_ to ask about the Staff of Genevieve! You were a _ghost!_ We couldn’t figure out how you did it, and…it’d be practically _legendary,_ if anybody but us knew you’d done it. Sweet sassafras, it’s so amazing to talk to you mammal-to-mammal when I'm not loopy. _Wow._ Nick Wilde.”

“Uh...yeah, that’s me,” he says, bewildered. How does she even know about that heist?

Her eyes go adorably wide again. “Oh my God, I beat up Nick Wilde. I’m _so sorry!_ I’m such a dummy sometimes. Oh my God, I touched your fur! You _carried_ me! This is so cool!”

Jack laughs hysterically from the front of the van, and Nick wants to dig a hole and hide in it forever. Her fan-gushing is more embarrassing than flattering. Street grifts aside, a good thief doesn’t have a reputation. Where did he go so wrong? “Stop. Seriously.”

“Sorry, I’m still riding the high of the job.” She bounces in her seat. “Um, but...can I touch you again?”

_“What?”_

“Knock it off, Jude, you haven’t even proposed yet,” Jack teases, and yeah, that thing about digging a hole still applies. Nick wonders when Jack is going to follow up on the threat he made at the Henhouse. “Sorry about her, Wilde. She’ll come down in about half an hour.”

Alarmed, Nick asks, “Wait, are you actually drugged?”

“Technically you don’t need drugs when you’re stimulated a certain way. Intense exercise, sex, a good heist, a fight with three or more mammals, decadent carrot cake. You know, the good things in life.”

That is not a no, but he's not going to push it. “You and I have vastly different priorities.”

“Don’t care. I get to sit next to a legend,” she tells him, and apparently, that’s that.

There’s an uncomfortable quiet in which Judy gazes at him in awe and he avoids her eyes, because he might start to stare too. Finally, Jack makes a disgusted noise and disrupts the silence. “So, Wilde, what’s with the collar and key in the bag I had to get from the bushes? Are you not wearing one?”

He’s intensely aware, all of a sudden, that he’s a guest in someone else’s van. If they believe him to be a threat…what might they do? Guardedly, he replies, “That’s the one I usually wear, but I can’t be blinking on a job, can I?”

“Aren’t you worried about going _savage?”_

Nick’s about to lie, he really is, but instead, he accidentally looks at Judy’s unreadable purple eyes and what comes out is the truth. “All the time.”

“Don’t be,” Judy tells him firmly, and it feels like she’s holding him with her eyes until she looks away and shoots a glare at the back of the driver’s seat. “It’s not really a primal regression. If it were, small mammals wouldn’t attack.”

“We think it’s a disease,” Nick offers. “Honey and I, I mean. I could catch it. We don’t know who’s vulnerable.”

Jack snorts. “If it’s a disease, it’s not communicable, or these incidents would have caused an epidemic. A parasite might have worked its way into the water or food supply, but then it would be infecting prey, too. No, the most logical solution is that it’s some kind of poison. A weapon.”

“I don’t know what could _do_ that.” Nick can’t let himself hope, because if Jack is right, it would mean that the collars – the TAME system – his mother’s blindness, the forced sparking, _all of it –_ is for nothing. And just as worrying is the thought that if it’s a weapon, someone’s targeting predators on purpose. Someone wanted…someone wanted predators to hate themselves, and be feared, and he can’t think of a reason that could ever be justified.

Judy shakes her head. “Neither do we. And with our vast resources, that’s saying something. This is our cause, Nick. After what happened to our parents…everything we do is to figure out who’s doing this, and why, and how. The most immediate problem is the TAME system, but once we dismantle that, we might actually have an easier time figuring out who started this.”

“We need someone on our team who knows how to talk to other mammals,” Jack reiterates. “I’m a terrible liar and Jude would probably just steal their wallets. Too bad you don’t want to join our team.”

“You didn’t even _ask,”_ Judy says, scandalized, but notably, she does not protest the wallet thing.

Nick can’t tell whether he’s amused by Jack’s secret-keeping or annoyed by the general situation, so he keeps his face blank when he explains, “He did, actually, when we met last time. I wasn’t aware of all the details. I was too busy to look back on it, but I think I assumed you’d probably try to sell it to an international buyer.”

“When you met last time…? Jack, you _jerkoff,_ you didn’t tell me!”

Jack laughs again, a sort of merry sound that grates on Nick’s nerves. He can see how it might be funny, considering that Judy had a weird fan moment when she recognized him, but everything tonight has been overwhelming. He has to keep his emotions under control. He can’t let anything through or who knows what might happen?

The truth is, it’s probably a fantasy to think that predators are randomly being attacked. He’s seen someone regress; it’s a terrible sight to behold, a twitchy, shaky, growly mess that ends in harsh electric shocks. He never saw Harry again. He’s pretty sure the wolf is dead. If it were a poison, wouldn’t there be foaming at the mouth or something like that?

“You guys are a little nuts,” Nick says passively.

Judy turns those damn eyes on him and asks, “Won’t you give us a chance to prove ourselves?”

“Not on your life, Cutie.”

Jack hisses angrily, probably at the nickname, and Judy’s demeanor changes, darkens, into something that turns Nick’s insides to mush. “Fine. Hard way it is, then.”

“Wha-”

Nick feels the cold metal of pawcuffs around his wrist and hears another click. Judy smiles up at him, holding up her own arm to show that they’ve been cuffed together. He growls, which seems to delight her rather than scare her, and how annoying is _that?_ “We’re not letting you go _or_ giving your collar back until you’ve seen our operation and agreed to help us.”

“Where did you even _get_ these?” Nick squints at the cuffs. “These are police-issue. How did you get away with stealing them?”

“I didn’t. They were my mother’s.”

Carmelita Montoya, designation “Fox,” INTERPOL. Judy thinks of her as a mother? Or…based on their phrasing, it sounds like Jack and Judy both _thought_ of Sly Cooper and Carmelita Montoya as parents before something happened to them. What it was, he doesn’t know, and he’s not sure he cares. “Do you always carry around pawcuffs with you?”

“Always. They’re my good luck charm.” She gives him a sweet grin that would probably tie his stomach in knots were he not so aggravated. “Now, don’t you worry, we’ll take _good care_ of you.”

It’s probably a lie. He could comm Finnick for an extraction that might never come – Finn is as likely to laugh at his plight as he is to help him out of it – or he could follow the crazy rabbits into their den. Warren. Burrow. Whatever. A playground rhyme from his childhood runs through his head as he makes his (probably stupid) decision.

_Curiosity killed the fox kit, satisfaction resurrected it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sad about Sly and the gang. I'm thinking of writing a prequel, once this is done, about the years leading up to the Spark Job, to show the whole story: how Sly and co. got to Zootopia, how Judy ended up embracing thievery, etc. But yeah, Sly, Carm, Bentley, and Murray flat-out do not show up in Big Damn Heroes. I may also write a one-off about Finnick's epic tantrum and Nick's subsequent firing in this chapter, but if I'd included that scene, it would have added about 3,000 extra words.


	4. The Vault Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick is taken to the Cooper HQ. It's not what he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of things: first, not everything is as it seems. Both Nick and Judy have some pretty deeply ingrained misconceptions that will take face-to-face evidence to shock them out of. Considering their situations, these misconceptions are not unreasonable, but still, don’t assume that all of the information in this chapter is 100% correct. Second, this chapter is mostly exposition for a lot of reasons, mostly because Judy has a big fat mouth and Nick thinks listening to her will allow him to find a weakness. The poor dears have some soul-searching to do if they want to save the city. I mean steal stuff. Obviously.
> 
> The song Judy puts on while she’s training is the Pretty in Pinker song from Thieves in Time. I’ve embedded the link here, but only listen to it if you don’t mind earworms.
> 
> [Pretty in Pinker](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1KcDBPBYBH4)

Happytown isn’t a huge place, but Nick hasn’t ever bothered to get to know the residents of the very tip of the spiral arm. It’s a no-mammal’s-land, full of drug dens and desperate housing co-ops, and nobody here has any money for him to con them out of. Except, apparently, Judy Cooper and Jack Savage, who seem perfectly at ease. Judy even waves merrily at a strung-out wolf, who flicks her paw and looks at Nick like he’s a big, greasy BugBurga special.

At least the location explains why Nick hasn’t met them before.

Jack is still dressed to impress, all tailored suit and impeccably groomed fur. How has he not gotten mugged yet? At least Judy, in her long-sleeved turtleneck and leggings, can sort of blend in, even if the scentblock she uses on jobs makes her less...smelly, aside from the faint bloody scent she’s wearing now.

Nick isn’t a snob or anything, but he can’t see the appeal of this area at all.

Judy tugs him through a doorway by his beltloop when he stares too long, murmuring under her breath, “Stop gawking. It’s rude. I don’t want you driving off my network.”

“And I don’t even want to _be here,”_ he replies, “but it’s not like you’re giving me a say.”

Another sharp tug forces him into the apartment building anyway, and he can’t tell whether he’s irritated or elated. The truth is, he’s never seen a real thief’s headquarters before. Ruth’s house barely qualifies, and Honey is only incidentally a thief, but Judy and Jack are dedicated to the profession. What kind of technological marvels might be in store? What kind of training gear might they have slung over their couch? Do they eat like predators, or just live with them?

To Nick’s slight dismay, when Judy tugs him into apartment 1F at the end of the hall, he’s not greeted by laser grids or a mess of computers. Instead, he sees a gargantuan weight rack, an old large television connected to eight (!) game systems, a megafauna-sized couch, and what would probably be a kitchenette for a very large mammal, but is too large for small mammals like rabbits and foxes. The dining table has only one chair.

“Welcome to my home,” says Judy quietly. She’s looking around the place with a sad little smile, and Nick remembers the likely reason everything is sized so large: one of the elder Cooper’s known associates is, or at least was, a hippo named Murray Chomps. This must be where the Coopers lived before whatever happened...happened.

“Don’t touch anything,” says Jack, sounding much crankier than he did in the van. Turning to the bunny next to Nick, Jack adds, “I’m going to work. Call if you need anything. An extra fist, _Fox-Away,_ anything.”

“Don’t be like that. Nick won’t attack me.”

“How do you know,” Nick asks curiously, trying not to wonder if they really do have Fox-Away, and if so, _why._

Her gaze is sharp and not at all playful. “Because if you do, I’ll have to neutralize you, and that would be inconvenient for everybody. We need you. Well, I say _you…_ we need your skills and knowledge. That they come attached to your sweet tail is a bonus, but you are not indispensable, even if you _are_ Nick Wilde.”

And _there_ it is. To be an effective thief, you have to cultivate a kind of ruthlessness that most other professions don’t need. At the end of the day, you can’t trust anyone. You can have allies, and you can _call_ them friends, but they aren’t your friends. They can’t be. That ruthlessness seemed to be something that Judy lacked, up till now.

She’s as savage as anybody, but she’s better at hiding it.

“I’m not going to attack you,” he assures her.

“I know.” She shrugs. “Now, Jack, go and play with your computers if you want. I can take care of myself.”

Jack rolls his eyes skyward, clenches his paws, and stomps down the shadowy hallway. Nick wants to call him cute, but he’s not keen on finding out just what Judy might do in the face of yet another speciesist slur. Probably hit him again. His shoulder’s still dead from their tussle at the Hoofstadt mansion. Speaking of…

“You as good as said that you were only stealing the opal to mess with the Hoofstadts.”

Judy turns a quick smile at him before reaching for a landline phone – really? In this day and age? – and asks, “Are you okay with spinach and soy cheese?”

He blinks at the non-sequitur. “What?”

“Pizza. I told you all my post-job rituals include pizza and gold. Keep up, Wilde, honestly.”

“I guess? I’ve never had it.”

“It’s just like regular pizza, but better.”

“I mean I’ve never had pizza.” He looks up at the ceiling so he won’t have to see her reaction. “It’s kind of a luxury item. Just get whatever, if you’re really intent on sharing.”

“You poor, sad, deprived little fox,” she says sorrowfully, while he continues to stare at the ceiling. Presently, she says, “Yeah, hi. I’d like to place an order for delivery. One large, half and half. No, regular cheese, spinach on one half and – Nick, do you like sausage?”

“What? Ew, Little Carrot.”

“Never mind, just spinach on one half and plain cheese on the other. Yep, that’s the address. Alice Feather. Great! I’ll be waiting.”

She turns to him, looking awfully pleased with herself. “Just wait. You’re going to love it.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he mutters, “but I’m kind of freaked out that they knew your address.”

She grins and tugs on his beltloop, leading him toward the hallway Jack took just moments ago. He follows semi-reluctantly, listening to her talk. “They record the information we give them, and nowadays every respectable business has caller ID. We use the landline for stuff like food orders. That way, it just looks like we’re shut-ins. C’mon, I’m going to show you something mammals don’t normally get to see.”

He wants to quip something about her bunny burrow, just to see what she’ll do, but he remembers the hot feeling from their tussle on the balcony and keeps his mouth shut. Something tells him that it’s probably an old, tired joke she’s got plenty of responses to. Instead, he asks, “What is it?”

“The Cooper Vault: Zootopia Edition. The one on Kaine Island is…inaccessible, at present, but we set up an approximation right here. Sometimes I like to sleep in there with all the stuff we’ve stolen, but mostly I just go in and look at it, to remind me that the job is more than just a lot of fun. It’s a way to make a _point._ Everyone we steal from is either a criminal or just a terrible animal. I really want to put the opal on display, but I’ll give it to you, if you can convince me.”

His stomach drops unpleasantly. “Convince you, huh? I…don’t think…”

“Oh for goodness’ sake, not like _that,”_ she says with a giggle. “Tell me why you want it. Here we are.”

Nick’s jaw drops as she spins a dial too quickly for him to remember the numbers and the ordinary-looking door cracks open. It’s reinforced, probably half a foot thicker than it should be, and beyond it is a shrine to opulence. Necklaces, rings, real gold coins, a large sapphire he’s _sure_ is the Mermaid’s Tear…yeah, he can see why she likes this vault. He’d like to dive into a pile of this stuff, à la Scrooge McDuck in that children’s movie he 100% _didn’t_ watch for fun, he was only _hiding_ in the theater, honest.

“Right? I’m in love with this room,” she sighs, patting him on the forearm. Her paws are callused, which is odd for a city bunny, but considering her profession it would be odder if they weren’t.

“I want to marry this room,” he agrees, spying a golden item twisted vaguely in the shape of a question mark. It looks like it ought to attach to something else, but he can’t imagine what. Did she steal it off a bedframe? Why only take one?

It _is_ as large as her head. Perhaps she just couldn’t carry any more. “What’s that, Little Carrot?”

“I am _not_ a carrot,” she retorts, annoyed.

A sore spot? Bonus. “You’re right, of course, how utterly rude of me. You’re at least four carrots end to end, maybe even six if they’re on the littler side. For my flagrant misrepresentation, please allow me to humbly apologize, _Carrots.”_

“You want another dead arm,” she asks rhetorically. “No? Then come inside. And for cripes’ sake, let’s get that collar off you. It’s obscene.”

He wants to protest, but then he remembers it’s the fake one anyway. She inserts something into the keyhole that vibrates slightly and his eyes fall shut as the lock mechanism clicks and the device comes off. Despite all his fears, he hates the damn thing. He didn’t even know he hated it until he started spending time out of it, and that’s even worse.

“I would smash every single one of these if I could,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry you have to wear it, and I promise you we’ll get the ones who made it happen.”

He scowls and searches for another topic of conversation. As nice as it is to know that there are a couple of prey mammals who don’t believe in the system, it’s hollow. No matter how _compassionate_ she might be, the truth is that she’ll never know what it’s like to have to shut off entirely. She’ll never know what it’s like to chafe day and night, to check on her mother and find her shaking on the floor, unable to see, still getting shocked every so often because of her panic.

“Whatever. Anyway, don’t think I didn’t notice the diversion. What’s that question mark thing?”

 _“That,_ Nick, is my principal weapon, or it’s supposed to be. It’s why I know who you are. Part of why I need you.”

“I’m not into getting suspended by hooks, so find a different test subject. I'm sure you can find plenty of horny tods on Fangslist if you phrase it right.”

He can’t see her eyes, as she’s tugging him along again, but he’s _sure_ they’re rolling. “Don’t be weird. You stole the Staff of Genevieve. This is supposed to attach to the top of it.”

“I still don’t know how you know I stole it,” he grouses, squatting down to get a better look at the hook. Now that he sees the thickness of it, he’s almost positive it’s not solid gold; that would be far too heavy. It’s probably gold-plated titanium, which would be both durable _and_ lightweight. “That was the perfect con.”

“I admit, you eluded us for a while, and we had the greatest minds on the case. Bentley and Jack are…there isn’t a word to describe how clever they are. My favorite thing is to get Jack drunk and ask him questions about what he’s working on, because he gets _so_ aggravated that I only understand one word out of five. Anyway, the Staff of Genevieve was why Dad was here in the city in the first place. It ought to be in the main Cooper Vault, so they were planning on stealing it back…but then it went missing, and then the walls went up. It took us eight months to trace it back to you, but you are frustratingly hard to track, and then Mom set up the Haven network, and-”

“Wait,” he says, cutting her off with a raised paw. “Haven is _real?”_

“Of course it’s real. Where do you _think_ those kits go?”

“Collar accidents happen to young predators every damn _week,_ Cooper, you really think a few more missing kits is going to look any different?”

She shrinks back from him, and he sort of feels like a jerk. It’s not her fault Haven sounds like an urban legend, and he didn’t plan on taking his frustration out on her. He can’t even blame her shrinkage on his species, if her mother was a vixen. Before he can decide whether or not he should apologize, though, she shrugs it off and says, “I can’t blame you for doubting. It’s supposed to be like chasing ghosts. We have our organization hidden behind shell corporations and vague business descriptions – I think _Rescue on Wheels_ is registered as a charity operation for families who need food, but that’s how we get them out of Zootopia. The shipping trucks come in, the shipping trucks go out, and if a few more kits are missing, well, that’s life, isn’t it?”

“So it…” He swallows, but his mouth and throat are dry. “There are really mammals working to give kits a better life?”

“We work to make the world a better place, where we can,” she says, and that tickles his brain a bit before he remembers the _last_ time she said that.

“Do you get injured a lot working for Haven?”

“It comes with the job. Sometimes you get caught, but more often, the kits get scared and lash out. I had a great disguise, before; I wore Mom’s jacket and skirt, and along with the headmask and tail shaper I can pass for a springhare. That cover’s blown now, and I don’t even know where I lost the mask and tail before you found me, but I’m sure I can get another costume.”

She looks so downtrodden. Despite his ire at being pawcuffed to her, he feels like maybe he should say something, anything. “Uh…the Staff of Genevieve is on display at the Curio Cabinet. I stole it for an interested third party. You can probably steal it back.”

Her frown is…odd. She doesn’t look _upset,_ precisely, but she’s certainly confused, and possibly annoyed. “You steal for third parties?”

“Why not?” He shrugs, flexing his wrist. His shoulder’s still a little sore. “What’s the point of being a thief if I can’t make money?”

“Were you planning on selling the Heart of the Galaxy?”

“Yeah. We have a spot at the next Candileja Market and nothing to sell. It’ll go for about a million bucks. Why did _you_ go after it, if not to sell it? They must have done something terrible if you really just stole it to mess with them.”

She gives him a sad smile. “The Hoofstadts were Jack’s host family before the walls went up. They kicked him out when they learned he was dating a predator. He wasn’t, they were just friends, but he decided if they were going to be like that, he didn’t want to stay anyway. We’ve been planning to get back at them for a while, but the party was the easiest way for me to get in undetected.”

“Yeah, about that.” He cocks his head and looks at her intently. “Where did the ropes come from? That setup had to have taken a long time.”

“I have some contacts in the decorating business,” she replies, running her free paw over the curves of the hook. “I got them to install the rig when they were re-painting the mansion. It’s easy to get mammals to do what you want if you have the right incentive. In their case, money was the answer, but I had some good blackmail ready if that offer had failed.”

“Blackmail?”

She looks slightly embarrassed, which he thinks is kind of weird, considering what it is they _do._ “I know it’s less than honorable, but sometimes you have to be gentle with a lock and sometimes you just have to break the door down.”

She runs her free paw over the smooth hook. It’s a gentle, sentimental gesture that he finds oddly sweet. “Did your dad give you that?”

“Nah, Jack and I built this one based on the specs of the Staff of Genevieve, which _really_ should be called the Staff of Angharad, which is a _fascinating_ story! See, Galleth Cooper had a daughter named Agatha and a _younger_ daughter named Angharad–” Her ears go flat against her back and she pretends away the fire in her voice and the sparkle in her eyes. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter now, history is written by the survivors. But my dad – I called him Sir, because he was my mentor before he was family, but his name was Sly – uh, he had his own. It was too big for me to use. I’m pretty sure it’s in the safe in his room, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to go in there yet.”

Nick looks down at the cuffs and back up at her. It’s funny that a thief and fighter could be so weirdly attached to other mammals and have what seems like real passion for history. She’d probably make a good museum curator and chase off anyone who didn’t respect the artefacts. This is something he can probably exploit. “If I promise not to try to run away, will you _please_ take these cuffs off?”

She huffs. “After we eat, maybe. You’re too skinny. But I know you’re going to try to sneak out, so here’s a tip: it’s better to wait till morning. It’s not really safe to wander around the spiral arm at night. This area’s okay, because it’s Haven territory, but it can get rough if you don’t belong here.”

“If you don’t belong – Carrots, I’m a _fox._ There are plenty of mammals who say I _only_ belong here,” he tells her, amused and wondering when she turned into a grandma. “If anyone doesn’t belong here, it’s you.”

“I’ve lived here for five years. The rest of Zootopia proper might as well be a foreign country, but the Edge is my home, and enough mammals know me as “Sly’s cub” that I’m not a threat. You, on the other hand…well, you smell like the greenery in the Canals, you obviously dropped a good amount of money on your clothing, and you groom yourself _way_ too often. You couldn’t be more obvious if you tried.”

“That’s kind of my shtick,” he points out.

She grins, all long curved teeth, and although they’re flat, the sight is unsettling. “I know, and it’s pretty neat. You make yourself as nonthreatening as possible so that nobody can tell that you don’t have that killer instinct.”

“And how would you know that I don’t have it?”

“Because I’m not injured. When we were on that balcony, there were about fifteen different ways you could have killed me. I left myself open just to see if you’d try something. You never even used your _claws.”_

He frowns. It’s not anger he’s feeling, not _precisely,_ but her line of discussion is dangerous. It’s halfway to blatant speciesism, and although she’s not aiming to hurt him – that, at least, is obvious – she’s insinuating lots of things he’s certainly not comfortable with. He goes for sarcasm, because he’s never run into a situation it didn't help. “Yeah, it’s a great idea to leave DNA evidence all over a dead bunny. _That’d_ go over real well.”

“Annnnnnnd, another point to Cooper,” Judy cheers, much like a sports announcer. “See, that’s a good thing. You’re _smart._ You can probably get pretty nasty, too, but when it comes down to it…you’re not willing to get dirty. It’s okay. I don’t like doing it either. Decent mammals don’t murder each other, after all. But the Edge is full of mammals who are willing to protect themselves and their property by any means necessary, and a lot of them are paranoid. They’ll see you as both a threat and a target. An outsider.”

“And you choose to live here because?”

She looks down. “Because I have nowhere else to go. My birth family doesn’t want me, my real family is missing, presumed dead, and I can’t leave my brother behind; Jack is so obsessed with this collar project that he’s turning into someone I don’t even know.”

“That’s the same thing he told me about you.” Nick brings his free paw up to feel the uncollared fur around his neck. “That you’re so obsessed he hardly recognizes you.”

“We owe it to our parents to finish the work,” she says almost guiltily, “but it’s more than that. I strongly believe that if you have a chance to make the world a better place and you don’t take it, you’re just as bad as the ones actively working to make it worse. Zootopia is supposed to be the city where anyone can be anything…at this point it would be an improvement if it was the city where everyone could just be what they are.”

“And what are you, then? A bunny? A costumed hero?”

“A thief.” Her smile is large and painfully fake. “What are you, Slick Nick?”

“A shifty fox, I guess.”

She shakes her head. “No, you are more than that. You’re better than the majority of mammals here.”

Is he, though? Nick doesn’t have many crises of conscience, but he’s objectively aware that what he does is illegal. He considers his crimes to be victimless, because even though he’s swindling animals into giving him things or he’s outright stealing, he never takes from anyone who’s just trying to get by. He steals art or jewelry from mammals who can afford to lose it. That doesn’t excuse anything. He’s a criminal by today’s standards _and_ by pre-collar standards.

“Don’t think about it too hard,” she tells him, seeming to read his mind. Or perhaps she’s had the same thoughts. “Just trust me when I say you’re something rare.”

Her frank tone gives him the creeps. “You don’t even know me, Carrots.”

“I...might,” she says guiltily. “I mean, just a little. I might have, uh, followed you? For a job? It was before I knew you personally, so it barely counts as stalking, and I swear it wasn't anything nefarious, we were just trying to figure out if you still had Angharad’s staff, and I didn't go into your room and watch you sleep or anything weird like that, and I didn't see more than your tail most of the time...not that I _ogled_ your tail or anything! I...oh, cripes, I’ve never had to talk to anyone I've followed before, and this is more embarrassing than I thought it was going to be, so pretend I just stayed cool and confident during that whole thing.”

From the way she’s tugging on her ear-tip and looking everywhere but his face, Nick can guess she’s mortified. He can hardly be mad at her, considering their professions. That doesn't mean he can't milk this for all it’s worth, because she did pawcuff him to herself, knowing damn well there’s nothing he can do about it. “Cooper, I feel so violated right now. Did you talk to my mother? Did you...oh my God, did you watch me _jerk off?_ That's so unprofessional...not to mention really, _really_ creepy. How can I even sleep now, knowing just anybody can break into my house?”

For a shining moment, she looks devastated, until professional pride overrides shame. Ah, well, it was nice while it lasted. “Hey! I am not _just anybody._ I'm a Cooper. Or as good as, anyway.”

“Yeah, how does that work, exactly?”

“How does what work?”

“Lines of succession, I guess.”

“It’s not like Dad was going to have his own kits, since he and Mom weren’t...you know, genetically compatible. He trained me. It worked out. _Ow,_ I’m starting to feel my shoulder again. Time for another dose of pain pills soon.”

“So you _were_ drugged.” He frowns, trying to get a read on her. Every time he thinks he’s got her pinned, she contradicts herself. “Is that even safe?”

“No, it’s not,” she replies seriously, “but neither is anything else we do. My job might kill me, and I’ll be ready for it if it happens. At least I’m _doing something.”_

“To make the world a better place.” He’s almost not mocking her. “To make a difference.”

“And to get a lot of gold. I love treasure, Nick. Jewels, art, other mammals...anything that’s precious. Maybe that’s messed up. Maybe I’ve lost myself along the way. But I know the difference between right and wrong, and sometimes the best way to fight the system is to break the law and make them suffer.” Her right ear twitches. “Oh, hey, food’s here.”

He stands up when she tugs gently on the cuff line. “How can you know that?”

“Bunny hearing. Pizza delivery girl’s coming up the stairs. C’mon!”

He follows obediently, rolling his eyes at her seemingly-boundless enthusiasm. Honestly, how old is she, twelve? All right, maybe he’s a little jealous. It’s been a long time since he’s felt young enough to hop around everywhere.

It’s been a long time since he’s felt young enough to be as optimistic as she is, too.

* * *

She was right; the pizza was delicious. After they ate, she took a pain pill and napped for a few hours, unwilling to uncuff him, and he surprised himself by nodding off as well. It feels weird, waking up in someone else’s bed, especially since sometime during their nap she scooted into him and he curled around her. His wrist is killing him and he needs to pee something awful, but it’s surprisingly…

...Comfortable.

He’s never bothered to acknowledge it, but Nick _needs_ personal connection in his life. The TAME collars have been a hindrance, leaving him more or less closed off from the world, and only recently has he realized how truly isolated he is. Turning off his emotions is unhealthy, but what else can he do?

One thing is certain: he can’t get attached to Judy Cooper. The only reason he’s even tolerating her is that she’s the only mammal he’s spent time with while uncollared. That is not a basis for friendship.

“Carrots, wake up, I need to pee,” he says, nudging her shoulder with his nose. He smells blood again, but it’s not fresh.

“Told you not to try a spire jump,” she murmurs, curling inward. Her movement brings his claws directly against the front of her pants, and yeah, this needs to end now.

“C’mon,” he says loudly. It’s not exactly a shout, but it’s loud enough to wake even the heaviest of sleepers. “If I don’t pee I’ll explode.”

“Ooh, _ow.”_ The rabbit stretches with most of her body, coming awake in shudders and spurts rather than all at once. Odd. For a thief, she’s certainly cavalier about her safety. Then again, she’s atypical for a thief. It’s possible that, despite living the lifestyle, she’s never truly needed to worry about her safety. Having an entire _family_ in the same line of work…

It’s enviable, for sure. Also, probably, highly inconvenient.

“I really, _really_ need to pee,” he urges. “Let me out.”

“Sorry. _Ow,_ sorry.” Carefully, she reaches into the neck of her shirt and draws out the key. With only minimal jerking, she unlocks his side of the cuffs. Nick considers bolting, hidden collar be damned, but...well. He doesn’t want to get caught, and he doesn’t want to hurt anyone if he catches the disease. She doesn’t seem to pick up on his sudden anxiety, merely touching her shoulder gingerly and saying, “Bathroom’s down the hall the other way.”

He flips on the light in the hallway. Although he has good night vision, the portraits in the hall were hidden the night before; he wonders what kinds of pictures a family of thieves would tack on the wall. For that matter, he wonders how a bunny can navigate a dark house. Maybe she just knows her space so well that she doesn’t need her eyes to see.

To his unreasonable surprise, the pictures are rather mundane. A raccoon, armadillo, and hippopotamus dressed in outfits not befitting thieves at all – blue shirt and gray pants for the raccoon, tight pink pants and a blue shirt for the hippopotamus, and a tan buckled vest with yellowish shirts for the armadillo, who rests in a high-tech wheelchair and wears unfortunate-looking glasses – hold game controllers and smile at the camera. A vixen in the same blue and tan outfit Judy was wearing when he found her in the alley points a sharp claw at the camera, obviously mid-growl. Judy and Jack – Judy in a black turtleneck, Jack in another clean-cut suit – look guiltily in separate directions, one slice of cake on a large platter between them. It all looks so domestic.

The bathroom, in contrast, looks almost like a hospital, gleaming fixtures and pure white tiles, a tub scrubbed fastidiously behind a mint green shower curtain, the porcelain toilet entirely too large for him. He grabs the ridiculous step-stool, realizing that he’ll have to climb it just to reach the bowl. The bathroom would be small for a hippopotamus, but for a bunny it’s cavernous. Who cleans this place?

Business finished, Nick drags the step-stool to the sink to wash his paws. Honestly, this is ridiculous.

...How is he going to open the _door_ now?

Fortunately, someone has cut a fox-sized door into the hippo-sized door, so getting out is not as big a deal as he was worried it would be. He has the idea to run again, and again, the thought of leaving the real collar behind worries him. Reluctantly, he walks back to the bedroom he slept in and watches from the doorway as Judy pulls a blue sweater over her white ribbed tank top. She must be a very quick dresser, because this isn’t at all what she was wearing on the opal job.

“Hey,” she says to him, offering a tiny smile. “Are you up for seeing something awesome?”

“If it’s anything like your treasure room, sign me up.”

“It’s a different kind of treasure, but no less valuable.” She holds her paw out to him, but he doesn’t take it. She shrugs it off with a blank expression. “Follow me. We’re going to the roof.”

Judy pushes open her window and climbs out of it. Nick looks out the window with severe doubts, which are assuaged when he sees a solid fire escape. This must be a very old building, then, if they’ve got one of these. He follows her up, trying not to stare at her tail. It’s just so _fluffy._ He has a weakness for fluffy things.

Once they’ve reached the roof, Judy does some kind of cute little hop onto the narrow spike of the decorative edge. He moves to catch her paw before she falls, but defying expectations, she doesn’t; instead, she crouches on it and says, “C’mon, join me.”

“Not on your life,” he says incredulously. “And you should probably get down from there. If you fall and die, your brother will blame me.”

“What? Oh.” She grins for real this time. “I’m not going to fall. I come out here around this time whenever I need to get some perspective. It’s going to happen soon.”

Nick settles on the curved cement outline of what was probably supposed to be a rooftop garden, once upon a time. There’s nothing in it now, not even dirt. He looks in the direction that his companion is looking, confused about what could possibly be interesting. Suddenly, a rumbling makes itself known, just as the sun begins to peek over the skyline of Zootopia proper, miles away from where they are now. Judy gasps as the intercounty train thunders by, gleaming orange in the light of the sunrise. He doesn’t get it, really.

“Is that it?”

“Is that – what do you mean, is that it?” She turns so that she’s profiled against the sunrise and looks at him with incredulity. “It’s...it’s gorgeous. That train is the same one I took to get here from Bunnyburrow Station. Before the world went to pieces. I can’t get on it and leave, but it’s like...Bunnyburrow still exists. Meadowbrook still exists. France still exists. Mexico still exists. Holland and the ocean and Tasmammalia still exist. And sunrise is the only time you can get that light sheen. This garbage in Zootopia isn’t _all there is,_ and even if it were, there’s still the sun. The world still rotates and orbits the sun. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

“Not really.” He shrugs. “Mostly I only think of the sun when it shines in my eyes and I want to tell it to go screw itself.”

She snorts. “You sound like Bentley.”

“Bentley...the armadillo, right?”

“Right.” She sighs. “Kind of like an uncle, but he’s gone now. Probably dead.”

“Probably?”

“We would have heard otherwise. They all went out one day and just...never came back. I like to think that my dad, at least, would have said something if they were going away for good. They would have taken us with them.”

“Because you’re _family.”_

“Don’t make fun of me. Maybe family doesn’t mean much to you, but it was everything to all of us. All of us lost our parents in one way or another. Dad idolized his family, and that was something that he couldn’t train out, no matter how much he tried. I _know_ they would have at least given us the choice.”

“Okay, sorry. My bad. How did you meet Sly Cooper anyway,” he asks, only mildly curious but wanting to change the subject. In the light of the rising sun, she looks almost otherworldly, and he’s not sure if he wants to look away or not.

Judy turns her head to look at him, smiling wryly. “Would you believe I tried to pick his pocket?”

“No way.” The story is already shaping up to be comedic. “You tried to pickpocket a master thief?”

“Well I didn’t _know_ he was one at the time,” she replies, looking slightly embarrassed. “I only knew I was starving, and stealing from a store was impossible. I’d pickpocketed a few other mammals successfully, but…that time, obviously, it didn’t work.”

“Okay, so in that case, why did he become your mentor?”

She turns entirely and moves her legs so she’s sitting on the fence facing him, her back to the sun. “Well, I don’t really know. He never told me, but I think he felt sorry for me. Mom might have had something to do with it, too. I was terribly skinny by that point, my fur was a disaster…it was a bad time. I was homeless, I was hiding from Dawn _and_ Mr. Big, and I didn’t know who I could trust. He let me go with a warning, but then later he and Mom found me in my little burrow under Feather Bridge, gave me a salad, and offered me a place to stay. I was so focused on the food I didn’t even recognize either of them until days later.”

“It took you days?”

She laughs. Somehow, it doesn’t sound like a nice one. “Remember, I was _starving._ They gave me food. I wasn’t ill, but I had a hard time eating. Bunnies don’t have a gag reflex; my body was just rejecting everything. Murray took me to the clinic under the name Alice Feather. Dr. Honey said my heart was damaged. I know I looked about as disgusting as I felt, but they took care of me. As it turned out, Bentley had taken on Jack as a sort of apprentice, so they had an expert on bunny diets telling them what to do. Dad told me – after I could eat properly – that I was very good, and that even though I was shaking and dizzy I would’ve gotten away with the lift had I tried it on anybody else; he offered me training. _Nothing big, just enough to help you survive.”_

She’s quoting. Clearly it didn’t turn out that way. “And you just accepted? Just like that?”

She shrugs. “It was a hard decision to make, but I would have done anything not to go back to the streets. I didn’t believe in the infallibility of the law anymore, so that helped. I used to silently apologize every time I stole something, until I realized that I felt alive again.”

“Damn,” Nick says. He’s a little bit impressed. Her story is sad, but the truth is, she’s a survivor, just like he is. “Is your heart okay now?”

“Not exactly. I might die young, and I have to eat enough calories to not harm myself further. I shouldn’t push my body past its limits, either, but I can’t help it. I used to be able to control myself, but now that my family is gone, the thrill of a job is the only thing that makes me happy anymore. Stealing isn’t just a lifestyle, it’s a part of self-care. But it’s okay. Something’s going to kill me eventually. Everybody dies.”

“That’s kind of messed up, Carrots,” he says, feeling slightly ill. She shouldn’t be so casual about her own death. She’s experienced enough loss to know that there are mammals who would _miss_ her. Haven would miss her. Who would run it if she died? “You shouldn’t be so careless with your life.”

“I know, I know, Jack would miss me, and all that. I made Dr. Honey swear she wouldn’t tell anybody my heart’s still wrecked, because I don’t want this stupid nagging. You’re the first mammal I’ve told. Don’t make me regret it.”

"Why would you tell  _me,"_ he asks. "That's not a wise idea. Ever."

"Because I don't think you'll care, and it's not really the kind of thing a mammal wants to keep inside forever.  _Oh, hey, now that you don't have a partner you're going to die young._ But you don't know me well enough to pity me. And it goes to explain the other reason I want you on our team."

"To keep your heart from giving out?"

"No." She turns back to look at the sunrise. "Because you're a good thief, and Jack isn't. If I die, I'll be able to die knowing that I left the mission in capable paws."

"Yeah, that's the thing, Carrots. For all that you've been talking up "the mission," I still don't know what it is, not really. Something about passive disruptors, not that I really believe that'll work, and then what? How can your technology address the real problem? You won't get rid of the regression disease just by taking away the collars. You'll just make Zootopia more dangerous for everyone."

She huffs. "I told you, it's not a disease. That's what Dr. Honey thinks, and I can't fault her for thinking it, but my mom was INTERPOL and my dad was an international criminal. They got around enough to see global trends. Mom said this looked like a textbook case of biological terrorism. And we both got bitten by a savage ocelot - the same one, obviously - but she didn't go savage, and neither did I. There's something, some outside factor, that's  _making_ predators go savage, and I intend to find out what it is. But I can't do it until the collars come off. Isn't this a worthy goal, Nick? Isn't it something worth fighting for?"

"It's insane, is what it is," he tells her. "You mean to go up against everything that keeps this city the way it is - politicians, law enforcement, lawyers - just to get proof of something that could just be the desperate wishes of a predator who got trapped here?"

"Yes."

He watches her. She doesn't seem defensive or proud or anything else. She believes in her mission so much that it's just fact to her. It would be inspiring, if it weren't so crazy. It  _has_ to be a disease. If it weren't, then the treatment of predators - all of this, the collars, the hatred, the quarantine - would be for nothing. Nick hates the mammals pulling the strings, the rich idiots who buy their way into the government, the officials who make exclusionary policies, but even with all of that, he can't bring himself to believe in some kind of...domestic terrorist conspiracy. 

"And your old friend, Dawn Bellwether?"

"If she gets in my way," she answers with a clenched fist, "then she'll go down with them. But even though she - what she did to me personally - even though that happened, I don't think she's a bad guy. I think she was just trying to do the right thing in the midst of a public panic. And I think she's still trying to do the right thing."

"Maybe," he says doubtfully.

"Anyway, let's go downstairs again. I need to work out and you probably need a little more sleep."

"I wouldn't say no to a little more sleep," he admits, though he'd rather just get out of here. Does she know that by withholding his collar, she's effectively holding him hostage? Or does she just not think about the consequences of her actions? "I do need to get home today. Finnick will be annoyed."

"Yeah. We'll take you after your nap," she promises.

He shrugs and follows her down the fire escape and into her bedroom again. She pulls off her turtleneck again and moves to leave him in the bedroom, but she turns around to tell him, "Sleep as long as you like. And when you wake up, tell me if you're going to join us."

 _Not likely,_ he doesn't say. The truth is, he doesn't know why he's so against the idea. He always works better when he has Finnick backing him up, and with another thief and a genius techie on his side, he could take on bigger jobs with a bigger payoff and less risk. He may not believe in their mission exactly, but that doesn't mean he can't make use of the resources they're offering. And if they end up being right, he'll be on the right side of history. He's already on the losing side in every way that counts, anyway.

Yeah. That's what he'll tell her after his nap.

The faint strains of something that sounds vaguely '80s, a simple bass riff under cheesy synthesizer, lull him to sleep, and it is an unidentified amount of time later that he wakes up in his own bed with a severe case of cottonmouth. If it weren't for the two identical collars blinking green on his desk, he'd think he dreamed it all, but he'd never take off his collar while Finnick and Ruth are home. 

Wearing a scowl of annoyance, he makes his way to the desk to grab the real collar. Even the key is there, which surprises him until he remembers that the Coopers have a bizarre moral code. What  _isn't_ there is the stuff he stole from Judy's backpack after his most recent art theft. In its place is a small, brown-wrapped package with a card on top. The outside has a crude drawing of a bundle of carrots on it - how cute - and the inside only says  _Think about it. We'll be waiting._ Inside the package is the Heart of the Galaxy, wrapped in tight binding and locks that are too complicated for him to pick.

Nick wants to  _scream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will have a classic hustle and we'll learn more about why Nick calls himself a grifter rather than a thief.


	5. The Identity Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick begins a long con and has an enlightening conversation. He and Finnick discuss important updates to their life of crime. We get a look at how collar legislation managed to get approved and find out wtf the Candileja Market is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to DeadDireWolf for this chapter. I don’t know if they’re reading this, but I wanted to hear about the story they’re writing and that motivated me to not be a dumbass. I had run off, breaking the promise I made to not abandon my nesting partners without notice. During that time I blew off school, work, and the people I hold dear. Although I’ve fixed it with my boss and my grades won’t take a huge hit, I hurt my nesting partners a lot, which sucks, and my steadiest girlfriend keeps scolding me for self-sabotage. What I’m trying to say is I wanted to have this chapter finished by September 25th and it’s October now. By the by, northern California is delightful this time of year. If you don’t mind bears. 
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be significantly longer and have much more action in it, but I put that part off until next chapter. This is, I think, the last “exposition” chapter, and next comes the “meat” of the story.

The trick to getting what you want is to expect it. Many mammals assume there’s a more complicated trick, a hidden mechanism that opens up the door to someone’s psyche, but the unvarnished truth is that you can make anyone do what you want if you expect them to obey. It’s all a confidence game, in the literal sense.

And if there’s one thing Nick is good at, it’s pretending confidence.

“Our firm is the only one that can deal with cases like – well, like yours,” he says, leaning in, mouth curled up in a tease and shoulders curled in to make him look a little smaller. That’s the other thing about a good con: mammals are more likely to be taken in by someone who’s somewhat attractive, but ultimately nonthreatening. It’s in the way you move, the way you talk to them. Offer them something they want, but phrase it like it’s something that they need. Not that this particular case isn't a desperate need.

Ellen Willowheart needs to divorce her husband, badly. Nobody would ever dispute that fact. In this part of town, though, and for foxes in general, there isn’t much help. The quarantine really screwed with the availability of legal services; in order to find an attorney that will bother to deal with predators, especially foxes, she’d have to commute three districts west, and that is time and exposure nobody really wants. There are still plenty of jerks that would try to make life...difficult. The colloquial term for someone experiencing _difficulty_ is “sparkler,” due to the shock collars, which is both descriptive and insensitive. One of Nick’s least favorite kinds of words, at least when it’s directed at him. And, as a con artist, he has a lot of words at his disposal, so that’s saying something.

“But.” She coughs behind her paw, an insincere move meant to buy some time. A delicate question, probably. “How is this possible? You're a – you're like me.”

She can't even say it. The hitch in her collar color is proof enough of some severe internalized speciesism, and Nick can't even blame her for it, now that he unpacks her question.

How can a predator practice law, is what she's asking. The real answer is that they don’t. Predator attorneys are aware of the many loopholes in the Mammal Inclusion Initiative, but it’s much easier to go into a different line of work when nobody will hire you. For a con last year, Nick worked alongside nurses, attorneys, and junkies at the fish market.  

“Well,” he says pleasantly, lying through his teeth, “we can be forced out of our jobs in a social sense, and after the Mammal Ex – sorry, _Inclusion_ Initiative went through, certain mammals lost opportunities, but those of us who had qualifications before the quarantine still have them. I'm one of the few who kept up my continuing ed, so my license never slipped; I'd be laughed out of court, but uncontested divorce is quiet enough. Someone has to look out for us. Might as well be me.”

It isn’t hard to file a case and keep it going. Nick’s done this probably twenty times now. Evan Willowheart is a drug-addled degenerate, so it’s very unlikely that he’ll even know he’s supposed to answer the summons and petition. After the wait period, they can default him and there won’t be any fuss. Ellen doesn’t know a thing about law, or she’d be doing this herself; all Nick has to do is sneak _pro se_ language into the court filings and this isn’t just a hustle, it’s a bona fide legal service. Three months go by and Ellen gets what she needs, and Nick gets attorney’s fees. It’s a win-win, really, and something that will take his mind off the problem of the world’s biggest opal sitting, otherwise inaccessible, in the top drawer of his desk.

He hasn’t told Finnick about the opal. The locks are beyond his capacity anyway, and if Nick can’t get them open himself or can't get hold of the Coopers in time, they’ll have to surrender their spot at the Candileja Market. Better not to get Finnick’s hopes up.

Okay, so maybe Nick just wants to solve the problem on his own. Judy Cooper may have left him a mess of electronic chiplocks and _live wires_ that he’s afraid might cause an actual explosion, but there’s a way. There’s always a way. Nick’s smart enough to talk his way around the government officials who inspect the district’s housing blocks; he can certainly talk his way around a sneak thief who’s better at punching mammals than being social.

“Well,” says Ellen Willowheart, biting her lip. It’s cute. He thinks of Judy again and he’s not sure why; they don’t look anything alike. “Are you sure we can...I mean, is it worth it? I could just leave. Hide somewhere and start over. I don’t know that I can wait three months.”

“We can ask to waive the 90-day waiting period,” he tells her. He knows because he looked it up online his first three times running this game. He got the template documents from the same website. “I can’t guarantee that the Court will grant our motion, but we can certainly _try.”_

“I just want it over with.”

He can understand that. She doesn’t know it, but Nick is acquainted with Evan Willowheart. She’s not lying when she says he’s a drug addict, and the degenerate part is an understatement. Injectable medicinal opiates might not be _illegal,_ but they’re only sold in specific places that are neither safe nor clean. Stolen from hospitals and bloated in price, the drugs make anything more than drooling and hallucinating impossible until the substance is out of the system.

Great for forgetting, terrible for the state of intimate relationships. Nick only knows this intellectually, but it’s an objective fact. Evan spends his nights cozying up to a recycled IV tree instead of his wife, and she knows exactly where their money is going. Nick _wants_ her to get divorced as much as he wants this con to succeed. He’s a pragmatist, not a monster, after all.

“We can make that happen,” he assures her. “We’re going to make sure that your accounts are legally separated with minimal hassle, and we’ll restore your former name in the decree so that you won’t have to pay to get it changed. Just a few months, and you’ll be completely free of him.”

Her brownish fur ruffles with the breeze, and it’s like he can smell her assent before she says it. There’s a short silence in which Nick can feel all the pieces sliding into place. He imagines it’s the same feeling Judy has– and there she is _again,_ invading his mind in all her annoying, long-eared glory – every time she cracks a safe. He just happens to crack mammals, instead.

“Okay, Mr. Aspen, let’s do it,” she says, using the fake name he gave her. He doesn’t do business under his real name. That’s the easiest way to get caught doing something...maybe not _il_ legal, not yet, but _extra_ legal at the very least.

He toasts her with his coffee cup and gives her a hard copy of what the internet assured him is a perfectly normal fee agreement. It’s not really possible to bring a printer, even a portable one, into a coffee shop, but with blank lines and the scanner app Finnick downloaded onto Nick’s burner phone, it’ll be easy enough to get her signature.

While she studies the contract, Nick looks around at his surroundings. This isn’t his preferred coffee shop; he’d rather get his caffeine at the one on Ninth and Lingonberry, but that’s a safe place. Don’t eat where you shit, and all that. This coffee shop is much nicer than Espress Yourself, which is a hole no matter how rose-colored your glasses are; this one, a kitschy little hipster place named A Shot of Love (Nick’s sure someone young and stupid feels very proud of themselves, when all they should feel is shame), has a lot of “natural lighting” and tables made of sanded wood slabs. The coffee’s okay – well, more than okay, it’s superb, honestly – but Nick would rather eat his own adrenal glands than come here every day.

Look at the clientele. It’s gentrification all over again, a bunch of well-off prey purchasing and renovating a building that once was a holdout for the so-called undesirables like him. Like Ellen, too, who’s a perfectly sweet vixen really doing her best to get by legally. Everything from the prices to the decor make Nick want to punch something, but...Judy was right about him. He’s not a violent animal. It’s not really in him.

Good God, now she’s invading his work. If the goal of leaving him the opal was to drive him crazy, it’s working.

Ellen gives the contract back to him with a small, timid smile, and warmth blooms in his chest. “I’m going to write up a petition and email it to you. If you approve it, I’ll get it and a summons to a process server. We’ll need some other documents from you later on, but for now, just wait for my email. You can send the retainer through PayPad; the email address is the same one I’ll be using to contact you. Is that all right with you?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you, Mr. Aspen. Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure, Mrs. Willowheart. Take care of yourself, okay? If you feel unsafe, don’t stay at home.”

“I’ve...I’ve got a friend I can stay with. You take care of yourself too. This isn’t the safest place to live.”

He doesn’t roll his eyes. He’s lived in Happytown off and on his whole life and he’s been far more threatened and vulnerable in the nicer parts of town. “Goodbye, now. I’ll be in touch.”

She walks out of the coffee shop and he turns back to his stolen laptop, satisfied. He hasn’t run this scam in a while, but it’s one of his favorites. The familiarity is comfortable. This kind of work is safe.

The truth is, extralegal can become illegal in an instant. Nick’s counting on the success of Ellen’s divorce; the illegal part of this will be difficult if Evan fights it. Nick is pretty good at reading mammals, and as far as he can tell, the drugged-up fox isn’t smart enough (or even aware enough, most of the time) to do anything. In fact, he’s probably going to die of overdose within the year. As long as he doesn’t kick the bucket before the end of the divorce, Nick’s scheme will be clean and untraceable. Identity theft usually isn’t, but that’s why he targets animals like this. Drug addicts this deep into their addiction don’t care about their credit, or who might be doing sketchy activities wearing their names.

Part of every divorce is an examination of both parties’ financials. Evan most likely doesn’t have any income, as Ellen said she is the sole provider, and Nick could tell she wasn’t lying. He doesn’t care about that part; what he cares about is the part where Ellen will have to provide copies of their jointly filed taxes and two years’ worth of bank statements. Nick will suggest that she move her money out of the joint account and not touch it again, leaving it in Evan Willowheart’s name so that he believes he has some control over the situation – which is good sense – and then, once Nick has Evan’s social security number and bank account number, he can adopt it as his own for another identity. Since he had to burn Oliver Fangworthy, he needs a new one. Nobody will miss Evan Willowheart, and as long as his taxes are filed promptly – or not, as the case may be; after all, the guy _doesn’t have an income –_ the government won’t come looking for him.

Now that he’s got Ellen’s case notated and ready to begin, he has time to consider the upcoming Candileja Market. He needs the opal to keep his spot, but there are only two options: crack the locking mechanisms, or agree to join Judy Cooper’s crusade. He’s not sure whether or not joining in is a good idea; on the one paw, all the points he thought of while he was still at their HQ are good ones. The extra support could help him pull bigger and better jobs with more payout. On the other, Judy and Jack drugged him (probably; he’d have woken up while being moved otherwise) and stole the information he had on Dawn Bellwether and Pawlee Gooseberry.

He stole that fair and square, dammit. She wasn’t supposed to get it _back._

So what to do? Go along with the idea for the resources, or stay out of it out of spite? Both are appealing for different reasons. It’s been a long time since Nick’s had a chance to be petty about anything, but the Candileja Market isn’t just a convenient way to make money. It’s a job faire, too. His reputation is on the line; if he backs out, it makes him look like a flake. There’s really only one answer, after all.

At least if he joins their stupid group project, he’ll be able to know what’s in the diary. Jack is probably good with codes.

* * *

In the end, he doesn’t have to find them. Only a few minutes after Nick made his decision, Jack slides into the seat across from Nick, glancing around every once in a while to glare darkly at the interior of the coffee shop. Nick wonders if anyone ever bothered to tell him glaring doesn’t work very well when you’re so cute. That, come to think of it, is probably why bunnies don’t like being called cute. It’s degrading.

Whatever. Nick’s called himself worse things.

“I accept your offer,” Nick says, once it becomes clear that Jack is waiting for him to speak. “I’ll help you do...whatever it is you’re going to do, so long as you remove the locks on my item before the Market. I won’t do anything until that happens.”

“That’s only reasonable,” Jack agrees, and Nick might call it amicable if not for the observable fact that Jack is obnoxious in everything he does.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

Jack tilts his head to the side, looking severe and unsettling despite being cute. Nick recognizes it as the same look Judy wore when she was concentrating on the opal in the Hoofstadt mansion and wonders if it’s a bunny thing or if they both just picked up behaviors from their adopted family. “I’ve been observing you.”

“Well, that’s disturbing,” Nick says, mostly insincerely. It’s not like he hasn’t set up some highly unethical monitoring systems for important games. The Coopers are thieves. If they _didn’t_ have any sort of surveillance going, they wouldn’t be doing their jobs. He has a jammer set up in Ruth’s house and he’s been careful not to do anything too conspicuous while outside, so it’s not like they’ll get much, other than his location.

“Right. I suppose professional courtesy requires that we tell you immediately, but it ought to have gone without saying. Judy’s taking a risk on you.”

Nick makes an irritated noise in his throat. Honestly, what is this guy’s problem? “You’re the one who wanted me on your side to begin with. Now you’re grouching at me for doing what you want. It’s a huge turnoff, you understand.”

“You are…” Jack looks at the table. “You’re the best. I heard how you talked to that vixen, the one who needs a divorce. I could never do that. Jude couldn’t either. It takes patience and finesse and that’s what we need from you. We need your skills. And I think that someone like you could be a quality asset, but I miscalculated. I thought my sister was too damaged to become emotionally invested. You were supposed to be a pretty trinket, a curiosity to keep her occupied and grounded while we all contributed to the project. I thought if I distracted her with a shiny new treasure, she’d be less likely to go out and accidentally kill herself. But you made her smile, Wilde. Not the kind of smile that makes her disappear without her comm in the middle of the night and come back with diamonds, or blood in her fur, but a real one. If our grifter double-crossed us, she would feel betrayed, but she would bounce back. If _you_ double-crossed us, it might actually break her.”

“I’ve known her for less than a day, if you add up the time we’ve _actually_ spent together. We stole from each other and bantered a little bit, but that’s it. There hasn’t been time to get emotionally invested,” Nick protests, slightly irritated and also, strangely, flattered.

“That...doesn’t really matter to a bunny, and as pained as I am to admit it, our instincts are not always repressible. A bunny usually knows when they like someone, even if we don't show it for a while. Social bonding doesn’t always make sense, but most of us need it on a base level. And I can’t be...I can’t give her the kind of bond she needs. We’re supposed to be family, but I’m not capable of…”

Nick looks at him blankly, despite suspecting where Jack is going with this. This rabbit has been a particular pain in his tail, and it would do to have him squirm a little bit. Jack caves quickly, but with no signs of true discomfort. “Regrettably, you can’t look at the source code for mammals and piece together how they work. I don’t know how to insert affection into a system I don’t understand.”

“And you think I can?” Nick snorts. “Or that I want to?”

“I don’t care if you can. Nor do I care what you want. I’m telling you this because you need to know that Judy may not come after you if you betray us, but I will. It would be so easy to poison you while you sleep, and it would not trouble me to take the pragmatic approach. You don’t need to form any kind of bond with my sister. In fact, I would prefer it if you didn’t. I saw Bentley, Mr. Chomps, and Mr. Cooper prioritize each other over the job enough to know that friendships are a distraction. But she, for whatever reason, likes you. My sister is the only thing I have. She is the only thing I value. Now that you know the lengths to which I am willing to go to keep her safe from any sort of harm, are you still willing to assist us?”

 _Not really,_ he wants to say. Judy’s an unbalanced, grief-stricken adrenaline junkie living on borrowed time, and Jack appears to be a sociopath. But for all his caution, Nick knows an opportunity when he sees one. So long as he doesn’t interact with them socially, things should be fine. There’s risk in what they do, even in a clean, easy game like the one he’s running on the Willowhearts. “Yeah, sure, as long as I can keep doing what I do best. I don’t want to dedicate all of my time, which is _precious,_ to your little crusade.”

“That’s acceptable,” Jack says.

“Also,” Nick adds upon inspiration, because you can never have too much security, “I’d be willing to bet that your sister doesn’t know how little you respect her. It would be a shame if she ever found out.”

“What’s your point?” Jack’s attitude doesn’t waver. “Are you trying to blackmail me? Trying to sow contention?”

“Making an observation. Blackmail only works when you have an emotional attachment to something, and you’ve made it abundantly clear that you don’t. You just put your interpretation of her on a pedestal. She’s a _thing_ you must protect, not her own mammal. I don’t expect someone like you to understand that reverence and respect aren’t equivalent. Don’t worry, though. I won’t tell her and, as you say, sow contention.”

“In exchange for?”

Nick smiles, slow and steady, showing his sharp teeth. It’s not at all a nice smile. “Conversations like this never happen again. No more threats. No more attempts at intimidation. I’m sure we will get along just fine.”

He can get along with everybody long enough to do an important job. Nick Wilde the grifter can be anyone for five minutes, and that’s really all he needs anyway.

* * *

“I have decided,” Nick announces to the room at large during dinner, “to work with the young Coopers.”

Ruth scowls predictably. Finnick, also predictably, chokes on his cicada pasty and glares, because he’s not an idiot, and he knows very well Nick chose the perfect moment to make his announcement in anticipation of the result. It’s not that Nick enjoys trolling, or anything, but actually he does. So there’s that. “The hell, Wilde.”

Once upon a time, this table was sturdy. It was worth something. But after years of supporting John Wilde’s heavy-duty Bearnina, angry fists slamming down on the only thing that wouldn’t break, and normal wear and tear, it’s a little more rickety than it should be. Nick could probably replace it, if he had the money, but the truth is that he _doesn’t._ A big score is usually not worth the risk, his solo thefts don’t often go for more than a few hundred bucks, and most of the money they make in their ventures goes to the upkeep of their little system.

Yeah. Judging by their little treasure vault alone, Nick knows joining up with the Coopers is the right decision. And nobody ever said he had to play by their rules. Judy’s enthusiasm can be turned against her rather easily, and although Nick downplayed it at the coffee shop, Jack’s reverence for his sister is absolutely the kind of leverage Nick can take advantage of in the right situation. All he  _really_ has to do is con them into trusting him until the time is right, and he can take them for everything they have.

“Two nights ago, Judy helped me retrieve the Heart of the Galaxy from the Hoofstadt mansion. I figure it’s only fair.” He doesn’t tell Finnick about essentially being blackmailed into helping, nor does he mention that somehow Jack (Savage? Cooper?) has access to technology that should never, ever go on the market. The electronic key he gave Nick worked well enough anyway, so the opal is free. He wonders what they might do if he refuses to help them now that he has what he wanted in the first place, what kind of failsafe might be in place, and decides he doesn’t want to take that chance until they trust him enough to remove their safeguards. “Besides, we can pull sleeker jobs this way. We won’t have to rely on Honey for computer stuff as much anymore, and...well, you haven’t seen Judy in action yet, but she’s amazing. She can practically disappear, like she’s part of the scenery, and her acrobatics and strength are…”

“Oooookay, after you’re done sucking her dick, can we talk about the _problems_ this poses,” grouses Finnick.

“Might I remind you,” puts in Ruth before Nick can object to the imagery, “that you’re talking about _prey?_ They’ll betray you, and then where will you be? Imprisoned or dead, no doubt.”

In truth, Nick doubts this immensely. Judy, at least, seems loyal to a fault, and Jack is the type to go along with her, if only to keep her happy. Whatever their collective damage is, it’s unlikely to get in the way of a professional relationship. Still, Ruth isn’t necessarily wrong. Nick doesn’t have any assurance other than what he’s read off them that they’re not planning to...what? Take advantage of him? It’s a business proposition, and a good one, as long as each party holds to their end of the bargain.

“I’m not an idiot, Mom,” Nick sighs. “I’ve got dirt on them. I know where they live and just how deep into the, ah, _criminal element_ they are. Trust me, we could drag them down kicking and screaming with us. They’re running-”

And he hesitates. Haven is a thing he can hold over Judy’s head forever, but that would be mutually-assured destruction of an entirely different sort. Haven doesn’t directly affect him, but it does affect dozens of kits who’ve been smuggled out of the city. Dozens of kits who haven’t been collared yet. It’s leverage he can use, but at what cost? And what will it cost if one of the uncollared kits comes down with the regression disease in a collar-free zone? Will they consider it a plague? Will they quarantine the entire _country,_ like some kind of post-apocalyptic YA novel?

Life was easier before he tried to hit the museum. He doesn’t regret the job, but it’s a near thing.

“-a long con on the entire city,” he decides to say. Then, belatedly, “And you’re gross, Finn.”

Finnick rolls his eyes. “And you’re twelve. Now, d’ya want your list of reasons not to do this alphabetical or organic?”

“Organic, please,” Nick snarks, because why not. He’s already got a good buzz going from the earlier work he did on Ellen Willowheart, and there’s very little anyone can say to bring him down. Even his meeting with Jack was a breeze in light of the high of the con.

“Go choke on your own baculum, you know what I meant. Gettin’ involved with another crew means sharing _secrets._ Means a level of trust we ain’t got the capacity for.”

“Outsiders ruin everything,” Ruth advises in a sharp voice she hasn’t used in a long time. The last time he heard it was before she went blind. That was the last straw, for her. Nick is sure she wouldn’t even trust _him,_ if she didn’t have to.

Her collar’s already blinking yellow, so he warns, “Mom, be careful; you don’t want to spark again. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you, though? Because it sounds a lot like you’re trailing after a girl you’re sweet on, without a thought to the _inevitable._ She might be pretty, but she’s prey. She’ll break your heart and you’ll be left hanging.”

Nick rolls his eyes, even though it’s wasted on a blind vixen. “I’m not sweet on anybody. And anyway, I think you’d like her. She said the same things about me that you always do: that I don’t have enough of a killer instinct.”

“Well.” Ruth furrows her brow, probably wondering how to spin it without contradicting herself. “There is that.”

“But what I wanna know is how the bunny convinced ya. The Nick Wilde I know ain’t exactly persuaded by a pretty face,” says Finnick. “Least ya haven’t been before.”

“Is the opal not enough?”

“The opal’s just a pretty trinket.”

Nick keeps his face impassive to mask his distaste. _Pretty trinket_ is what Jack called _him._ “A pretty trinket worth a million bucks. A trinket that, incidentally, will allow us to keep our spot in the Candileja Market and not tarnish our reputation.”

“Market’s anonymous.”

Nick shakes his head. “It used to be, but everything’s online now. Even with the security Honey set up for us, it’s still theoretically possible for someone to figure out where we are, and therefore, _who_ we are. If she can do it, so can someone else on her level. As long as we produce an item of value, nobody will have a reason to look too closely.”

“What _is_ a Candileja Market,” asks Ruth. “You never tell your mother anything anymore.”

Of course he doesn’t. She always has some criticism anyway. She’s equal parts exasperating and sweet, so long as there’s nobody she hates involved in the conversation. “It’s kind of a black market thing...but only for worthwhile items, as in, half a million or more. Invitation only, unless you know someone on the inside. A list of biddable items is sent to participants three days in advance and they pick about eight different _potential_ places to hold it, while all the real bids – one number in a message with the lot number in the subject line – are sent in electronically and raids of the venues turn up nothing. Bids used to be cast by payphone, and before that, by post.”

“Sounds like too much effort, Nicholas.”

“And that’s why you’ve never heard of it. The Market’s not really for small-time grifters,” he says, a little meaner than he meant to. “We’ve never been able to participate before. I just...know a guy who knows a guy.”

“And this market. How much will you make from the sale? Realistically, not the prime sale value. You know as well as I do how auctions work.”

Nick sighs. “I don’t know. The opal’s worth a good million. Bidding might not go that high, especially since everyone who’s anyone knows _what_ it is. I can’t imagine it’ll go for less than three quarters of a million, though. After entry fees and hush payments to the auctioneer...well, it’ll be a decent lump sum, so long as we can hide it.”

Half a million is what he’s thinking. Maybe a little more, if this year’s fees are spread amongst enough participants. It’s a good chunk of money in any case, enough to put aside for future endeavors. It’s never safe to pay bills with black market winnings, but honestly, this will be better for their reputation than anything else. Who wouldn’t want to hire the thief who stole the Heart of the Galaxy?

(And it burns a little that Judy Cooper got to it first. Bunnies aren’t supposed to be good thieves. They’re supposed to be overly-emotional, easily frightened, practically begging to be overpowered. That two bunnies are running Haven...it defies explanation.)

“I learned a few things about Haven, too,” he finds himself saying. He usually has better control of his mouth, but lately – probably as a side effect of being able to _feel_ more often – he’s had to be twice as careful.

“Please, Haven’s a myth,” says Finnick.

“It’s...not necessarily a myth. It’s a criminal organization, though.”

“Obviously.”

The tricky part, the reason it’s so hidden, is that smuggling children out of Zootopia is a crime. Once the quarantine was set in place and Happytown was absorbed, Zootopia became a territory; technically, it’s part of Animalia, but for the most part Zootopians must govern themselves and set their own rules and laws. It’s why collar legislation was allowed in the first place. According to the stories, these children are more than Animalians; they are also _refugees_ who are given new identities, placed with open-minded host families, and probably will never see their parents again.

It’s a bleak existence, one Nick isn’t sure a child should be asked to handle. He’s not sure that allowing predator children outside of the old quarantine zone is safe, either. But what choice do they have? It’s a choice the government made, and Nick often bounces between thinking it was the worst thing they could think up and thinking they made the right call. It depends on the day. It depends on whether or not he remembers how it feels to spark out.

(It depends on how vivid the memories are of the wolf, snarling and violent, claws out, poised to rip Nick apart.)

“Your connections will get you killed, Nicholas,” says Ruth ominously. She’s probably right about that. One of the downsides of knowing everybody, or at least knowing a guy who knows a guy, is that everybody knows him, or _of_ him. He’s a collector of information. It keeps him safe and puts him at risk at the same time. All it takes is one cop deciding to silence him for what he knows – or one wrong move based on false information.

“Something has to,” he replies noncommittally, and takes a vicious bite of his fruit salad.

* * *

The pair of sunglasses comes in the mail. They never get mail anymore, not even junk mail; everything’s online these days, and even if it weren’t, junk mail isn’t quite a thing anymore. When the majority of a population is poor and chain stores are few and far between, it’s not worth the marketing and paper costs to send out coupons to mammals who probably won’t use them anyway.

_NW,_

_This is a special communicator. Because we are sane mammals who are much more fashionable than our predecessors, we have changed the design to look like sunglasses and refuse to call it a Binocucom. It will only work if you’ve activated it with your voice or a thumbprint. The little misshapen green thing is actually a custom-fitted earbud that will work over long distances. Let the little camera take a photo of you and then whenever you stream from your device, I can see your smirking face!_

_JLC_

He rolls his eyes and doesn’t take a selfie. Instead, he carefully puts the device up to his eyes and rests the hooks around his ears. Judy probably wouldn’t do anything to prank him (she’s more the type who would steal his wallet and hold it hostage), but Nick wouldn’t put it past Jack to cause him pain for the sake of it. Just as a _reminder._ Nothing happens, though, except a change in perception. At the top left corner of the lens is what seems to be a digital notice to him that says FOLLOW THE MAP TO HQ. He presses one of the buttons on the side and it takes a photo of his unmade bed; clearly not that button. Two of the buttons seem to be zoom functions, which is cool, but he’s not sure _why_ he needs them. Finally, the last button brings up a map that looks like Zoogle Maps, but clearly isn’t.

There’s a little blinking dot on Lemon Avenue. That’s him, presumably. The blue arrow points toward the spiral edge: the Cooper HQ. He could, in theory, lead the police straight to a pair of criminals. He’d probably get a reward of some kind, if they believed him long enough to go there. But...he won’t. Aside from the obvious risks of seeking out interaction with a police force that has, in the past, actively meant him harm, he doesn’t want to risk any nasty safeguards. Jack already threatened him with death, and in the face of officers investigating _prey,_ he’s not interested in pushing his luck.

“I’m going out,” he calls as he nears the door. It’s not that he wants the Coopers to think he’s available, or willing to obey their every demand, but everything’s ready for the Market already and there’s nothing he can do about Ellen’s case until she okays the petition. He has nothing else to do. And it’s good to know where they’re located, in case of...not _emergency,_ but some kind of necessity.

Nobody responds, not that he expected them to. Although he, Ruth, and Finnick live together, they are not close-knit the way some families are. Nick needs a lot of space to decompress, Finnick is perpetually angry, and Ruth is a misozoopic old vixen who wants you to get off her lawn. Picturesque ideal, they are not. Nick doesn’t mind it, but he’s always peripherally aware that he probably should be better. Finnick is an invaluable partner, and Ruth could die before they truly reconcile.

Eh. Maybe another day. Today, he’s got an apartment to find and thieves to con.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nick called Jack a sociopath. That’s not the correct term for Jack’s...condition, and in fact, you should never diagnose someone without a degree and a few private sessions with them. Whether or not Jack has antisocial personality disorder is, and will remain, unclear. 
> 
> Unrelated: one of my biggest gripes about Zootopia is that the racism allegory breaks down on a fundamental level. Evolved animals are obviously reasoning, thinking creatures, and have found ways around eating each other, but ancient predators absolutely did eat other animals, and in that context it isn’t wrong to be frightened in the midst of an unexplained regression epidemic. Especially when the doctor working on the case – a predator herself, in case you didn’t know anything about badgers – outright states that it probably has something to do with biology. So in this story, I’m really pushing that angle, not because I want to be a racist dick, but because it allows for a view of contextual internalized _x_ ism, which is a huge fucking problem in _our_ society. With the right mix of carefully-edited history and cultural conditioning, you can make people believe in almost anything. That’s how religion works. You have women who literally believe they are worth less than men, _right here in the US._ The mental anguish that Nick’s going through is a huge part of this story, which should be obvious, but the flip-flopping is important because...well, y’all are smart enough to understand it and I don’t want to give out too many spoilers. But please don’t think I’m writing it this way for extra drama. If I want drama, I’ll make buildings explode or kidnap somebody. This is the micro-commentary that the movie only glossed over in favor of, you know, domestic terrorism and government corruption.


	6. Interlude: Steal My Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, below the face of the once-great city, Judy is a self-destructive creeper and Jack fails to talk sense into her. Surveillance, sex, and theft also happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is yoinked from a song that was fairly popular ages ago. Also referenced in this chapter: the Spiritual Stones from Ocarina of Time, complete with possibly the dumbest Zelda joke you’ve ever heard. I’d like to state for the record that Judy is impossibly hard and I regret ever entertaining the idea for this interlude, but nevertheless I ain’t apologizing for this chapter. Nick doesn’t have (and may never have) the whole story and I need a shot of violence now and again.
> 
> Warning: there’s a sexy scene in the later part of this chapter. It serves a pretty big purpose to the rest of the story, but there’s an OC involved. Sorry. It’s not my thing either. It just had to happen. I’ve had the event planned since I wrote the first chapter, though I didn’t actually plan to describe it because I wasn’t planning to ever write sexy scenes or write from Judy's perspective.

Alone again, just me and the target, as it should be.

It probably isn’t healthy for me to spend so much time alone, because bunnies are highly social creatures, but I don’t mind being alone. After everything, it’s safer for me. Emotionally, I mean. When someone tries to hurt me, they usually succeed. I love hard and fast and it tends to backfire. I want to be stingy with my affection, like Jack is, but that’s not who I am. It never has been. Half the reason I kicked Gideon Grey in the face when we were children was that, prior to his public mockery of my dream, I had (in my own terribly inefficient, insensitive way) been _trying_ to be his friend, and that mockery hurt far worse than the scratch on the cheek he gave me later. I’m impulsive and passionate, anyone with a brain can see that. Or feel it, if I get physical. In my adult life, I’ve learned to consider it an asset, but I know very well how dangerous it is. So liking Nick Wilde is _dangerous._ It’s not that I believe he has malicious intentions, but he could hurt me if he tried, and he probably will try at some point. I’ve watched him enough to know that he doesn’t know how to be liked.

But I do like him, and I don’t know how to stop.

The first time I laid eyes on him, about two years ago, he was wearing a truly horrific Tommy Bapawma shirt and a tie with slanted stripes. His sunglasses were red, his smile was dangerous, and his voice made me hungry, but not for food. I registered all the things I had been taught to look for: the way he moved when he thought he was alone, the way his ears swiveled when he thought nobody was watching, his tiny irritating behavioral tics. I followed him for three days – during which he stopped for coffee _seven times_ and talked to about thirty mammals who all seemed to know him – and reported back, entirely certain that he would ruin me if we ever met. He was a thief like me, but not like me at all. I could punch out a guard if I got caught. He could seduce one. He could seduce me for sure. I’m _terrible_ at resisting things I want.

He acts like he doesn’t know the power he has. But he must know. It’s rare to find someone who can convince you that you want something. Rarer still to find someone who can do that and doesn’t use it to harm innocent mammals. He found me bleeding after I got sliced by one of Big’s newest assets and took me to the clinic, knowing the risks of being found with injured prey, and at this juncture even _I_ wouldn’t do that without asking for something in return. There are things about Nick that make him different – and irresistible. There are also things inside of him that are ugly and awful, but coming from someone who basically stalked him to find that out, that’s a pretty hypocritical statement.

I shouldn’t be watching him. I really, truly shouldn’t be doing this. It’s invasive and weird. But now that I know where he is, I keep finding myself walking on the rooftops near his house, or risking myself in broad daylight by following him. Just to hear his voice. My mentor, the mammal who said I could call him my _dad_ if I wanted, told me I’m a Cooper at heart. It’s true. I like power, I like thrills, and I like treasure. My favorite treasures just tend to have a pulse, and Nick is one of my treasures now.

(Carmelita and Sir were my treasures too. I always call them Mom and Dad aloud now, because it honors their memory, but I wish I had called them Mom and Dad to their faces at least once, like they wanted me to. But I can’t think about them right now. Maybe not ever, when I’m alone.)

 _“I don’t know, Finn,”_ Nick says. I can hear him fake-arguing with his partner, Finnick, in the living room. Bunnies don’t let on, because it’s bad manners, but we hear all sorts of things we’re not supposed to hear. It doesn’t matter whether you’re behind closed doors or in the middle of a crowded park, we can probably hear you when you whisper that new sex position into your partner’s ear. Right now I’m pressed against the wall, blending in as only a thief can. Nobody can see me, and it feels good. I feel powerful, like I never do outside of work. _“We’re not equipped for a job that big yet.”_

Finnick replies in a deep, aggravated tone, _“Ya think? I ain’t askin ya to do it all yaself. Ask ya new buddies. The Coopers.”_

He sounds like Carmelita every time Sir did something stupid. It’s a painful reminder, but I take the feeling and gulp it down, greedy for more. Even if it’s painful, it’s _something._ We necessarily lived in a way that we could pick up and move at a moment’s notice, which means that other than our treasure, which is just a bunch of trophies from jobs well done and realistically could be abandoned, my new family didn’t have much in the way of personal effects to leave behind. Mostly what Jack and I have left are intangible reminders, and of course the makeshift vault.

 _“I don’t think so,”_ says Nick. _“We’re still a little shaky. I don’t even know how to reach them. Jack, that little turd, told me they’d be in touch, but thus far, there hasn’t been any contact.”_

I should send him a communicator. Our AR tech is state-of-the-art, and we connect via satellite, so it can work basically anywhere. I may not understand it, but I understand that it _works,_ and that’s what’s important. I would appreciate the safety in being able to contact our team grifter whenever I need to, and...well. I won’t delude myself into believing that Nick feels an overwhelming urge to talk to me, but situations like this one, the one I’m listening in on, wouldn’t happen anymore.

 _“Anyway, Cooper might be the best thief this side of Atlantica, but I don’t want to owe her anything, her_ or _her brother. Don’t worry, Finn, I can take care of myself. Been doing it since I was a kit.”_

That’s a tantalizing image, Nick _taking care_ of himself. I can imagine it vividly, his large, wide paw gripping – he’d be enthusiastic, I think, the kind of frenetic abandon he avoids in his daily life – and it would be more than just moaning, he’d _talk,_ he’d use that voice of his that I want to wrap myself in and – sweet cheese and crackers, I’m such a _creep._ What am I _doing?_ This is completely inappropriate.

I jump the fence and snag the trellis next door, making my way to the roof. My broken heart is in my throat. I can’t believe I just fantasized like that _on the job._ This is beyond surveillance, beyond the boundaries of anything that could be considered decent. A thief is always prepared to jam surveillance, and he’s got a pretty sweet setup in there, though I’m not sure he knows that. We knew our bug would get us nothing; it was basically flirting. But there’s a difference between snooping for a job and listening at someone’s window like some common criminal. I’m better than that.

The truth is, I don’t _get_ sidetracked like this. I’m usually very much in control of myself, especially now that Sir is gone. Nobody would ever have acknowledged it, but he was the one who kept us all afloat. Carmelita was too invested in Haven, Bentley was a genius but could hardly function without his computers, Murray was kind and strong but needed direction, I was too in love with freedom, and Jack...well, I don’t know what his trauma is, but he’s not a leader in any sense of the word. Now that everyone is gone, I have to be Sly Cooper in every way that matters, and those are some big pawprints to fill. I have to keep Jack on track, keep our organization running, do the majority of the fieldwork on my own, keep morale high...it’s exhausting, but it’s good to have such a rigid life. If I don’t get distracted, I won’t have to think about anything extraneous to the job.

Except Nick Wilde, for whatever reason, makes me feel things I thought I’d never feel again. I think it’s because he reminds me of the good things I’ve lost, and the pain is worth it after months of being almost numb. Also I’m pretty sure I’ve imprinted on him or something, even though that’s not a thing that happens to bunnies, because I keep having emotions when he does things. He’s cynical and annoying and he has this darling curiosity he thinks nobody notices, and every time he opens his mouth to talk, I get a thrill. I wish the plan was anything other than using him for his talents and moving on when we’ve exhausted his resources. He doesn’t deserve to be used. But the job is more important than anybody’s feelings, even his. Especially mine.

 _Focus,_ Judy. I need to go _do my job._ The Goron Ruby won’t steal itself, but that tasty little gem’s stuck behind layers of heavy security. I need to be across town in an hour if I want to stick to our timetable.

I pull on the straps of my pack, make sure my cargo pockets are buttoned tightly, and begin to _run._

* * *

My favorite part is first contact, when I first lay eyes on my prize, but there’s more to theft than getting starry-eyed over a priceless jewel or a fine painting. I like the details, too, and the mechanics of preparation. Running on wires above the part of the Rainforest District reserved for megafauna is...I can’t describe this feeling. It’s more than happiness. It’s the closest I ever feel to real, genuine freedom anymore. It’s bad for my heart to run so fast and jump, jump, jump until I’m so high above the world I might as well be separate from it, but my other option is to _not_ do this, and that’s unacceptable.

I can feel the wind in my fur, circulating in my ears to cool my body. If I were my brother, I might run a systems check, ensure everything is at top function, but I’m me. I have my limbs, I have my equipment, and I have the scum of Zootopia at my fingertips. The world may not be my oyster, but the city is, so long as I keep trying to make it a better place.

I jump as far as I can, from my wire to the topmost window, only just managing to catch the window frame with my paws. That was a risk I shouldn’t take again. I’m going to do it anyway, but next time, I’ll do it well.

As I slide into the attic, I consider what we know thus far: Patricia Leapyear, the matriarch of the Leapyear family, is a huge proponent of the so-called Mammal Inclusion Initiative, an old project of Dawn’s and Leo’s that Pawlee Gooseberry co-opted and warped beyond recognition. If that weren’t enough to get her on our hit list – Sir would have something to say about stealing from someone who isn’t a thief, but I’m a _bit_ more practical than he was – I’m fairly certain that the Goron Ruby was bought off the black market. We sell plenty of stuff on the sly (that joke never gets old), but it’s all stolen, so I know that the ruby was too. It may not have been enough for the code that nine-year-old Sly Cooper made up to soothe his budding conscience, but it’s close enough to theft for me.

Plus I really _hate_ the Leapyears. Aside from their short-sighted matriarch lending support to a horrible cause, Matilda Leapyear broke my brother’s heart and I’m pretty sure she poisoned her sisters, too, though I don’t have any proof.

I look for all my exits, even unconventional ones, before I choose to slide into the dumbwaiter. The actual shelf is probably in the basement area, but all I need are the cables anyway, and only until I get down to the first floor. According to our schematics, there should be an air vent down there I can crawl into before anyone notices an extra bunny. I almost wish someone _would_ notice, just so I could punch someone who deserved it.

Sometimes the depths of my hatred scare me. I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t full of it, but I know that time existed. I was a kit once. I was a naive student once. I think I built up this hate so quickly and quietly that it should be all I feel anymore, but it’s always competing with a weird abstract love. I may hate what’s happened to this city, and all the mammals who support these changes, but...I only hate so much because Zootopia is a city I’ve loved since I set foot in it, bright eyes and all. Every mammal I care about is here in this city. Further, Zootopia taught me that there are two kinds of right and wrong: capital-R and W right and wrong versus little-r and w right and wrong. Kicking those sheep in defense of Carmelita was the little-w kind of wrong, but the TAME collars are the capital-W kind of wrong. Following laws that are unjust would be the little-r kind of right, but breaking the law to help others is the capital-R kind of right.

Sir had a different reason to enjoy being a thief. It was a family legacy. I enjoy being a thief because this is the only way I can make a difference. Hurting mammals who ought to be hurt makes me feel less helpless. It makes me feel like I’m _doing something._ I have no power otherwise. I may never be a cop, but considering how corrupt the police are now, vigilante justice is probably better anyway. This is the capital-R kind of right, and as long as I have that, I have a purpose.

My arms ache as I lower myself into the kitchen, but I don’t mind that. The mild burn helps ground me. (It’s why I don’t mind when I pop my stitches, even though it’s dangerous and getting them re-done is inconvenient and embarrassing and I usually go to Amy, the hedgehog from the mortuary, instead of Dr. Honey.) As promised, the air vent is right there. I bring up my camera with a touch of a barely-there button and get crawling, so I won’t have to worry about what to do with my paws when I reach the right room.

My sunglasses are snug around my ears, tinted yellow for more reasons than just filtering out certain kinds of light. The color adds a level of security for our AR systems, making it less likely for others to notice when I have my messages or map up on my lens. We’ll probably give Nick a pair of shiny ones because his eyes are more sensitive than ours and he can see in the dark even through aviators, but Jack’s lenses are yellow like mine. I almost never worry about the camera picking up on details, because these allow me a sort of artificial night vision, but I do worry about missing small details because night vision isn’t the same as night discernment. That’s why I do so much recon. I have to look at everything twice.

That’s okay. I like looking.

Reconnaissance is more than just lying in wait taking photos; it’s breathing, it’s movement, it’s a tango with a partner who doesn’t know you exist and somehow follows your lead anyway. I’m small enough to lie in the air vents, watching carefully through my lenses, memorizing guard routes if it’s a large facility or memorizing patterns and lighter security measures if it’s a small facility. Generally a residence is a small facility, but the Leapyears are traditional bunnies in more than one sense. They have dozens of kits, and while it’s not hundreds like the Hopps family that I was once a part of, it’s enough to justify a residence larger than the Hoofstadt mansion. That’s why they live in the area usually reserved for megafauna. In order to avoid building a complex in, say, the Meadows, they’ve chosen to repurpose a larger manor.

All the more interesting for me. My thefts usually have a pattern, and this breaks the mold. I’ve been in need of a change lately, for the sake of my sanity. Patterns are nice until they become _all you see._ I think that’s why Jack has a hard time relating to others. He’s had his head in computers so long that all he can see is systems.

 _“-us in here. Shut that door. Listen, I’ve told Patricia I’m keeping the little one isolated to avoid further infection, but between you and me, this is idiopathic at present. I’m just keeping her contained until I can figure out what’s going on,”_ says someone just outside of my range of vision. I try that old mirror-on-a-stick routine – sometimes the classics work best – but I still can’t see more than some brown, droopy ears and a shadow just around the corner. _“Whatever she ate, it made her violently ill. Emphasis on violent.”_

 _“What are her symptoms,”_ asks the brown bunny. Judging by the voice, it’s a male, but you can never tell.

_“Aggression, mostly, but she isn’t all there. Lights are on, no one’s home. I’ve never seen anyone like this, snarling and biting at anyone that comes close. It’s almost as though…”_

_“What?”_

_“As though she’s gone_ savage.”

 _“A bunny can’t go savage,”_ says Brown.

 _“Well, this one did,”_ says Shadow, _“and if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep it to yourself. We might have to...take alternative measures. This_ can’t _get out.”_

I blink.

Blink again.

Even after we figured out that the “disease” was probably some kind of biological weapon, we as a family assumed it was still related to the differences between predator and prey. Bentley and Jack ran some numbers and did a truly horrifying amount of research, and came to the conclusion that the drug (or _whatever_ it is) probably bonds with the enzymes in the digestive systems of omnivores and carnivores to influence the behavior and mental state of those targeted. Carmelita used to laugh and tell me it was a good thing bunnies couldn’t go savage, because I was _already_ a right terror. But if this mysterious rabbit really did go savage, then that means…

That means _anyone_ can. Which means this isn’t something that targets predators only. Which means that finally, _finally,_ we might have leverage. Thank goodness I’m live streaming right now. This would never hold up as evidence in court, but with some more sleuthing and a bit of controlled information release, maybe some kind of anonymous press tipoff, we can make this public, at least. If it’s in the food, everyone needs to know! But we need to be sure that whatever happened to this bunny is the same thing that’s happened to all of those predators, or else alternate explanations will lose credibility. Even predators are skeptical of the idea that it’s not a disease; Nick is proof of that. Regrettably, this means we’ll have to put off the theft of the ruby. But that will be here as long as the Leapyears want to display it, and we have no idea how long the savage condition lasts. Priorities.

That’s my job now, too. _Prioritize._ Find the jobs and rank them from most important to least. Balance Haven with theft of more inanimate treasures. I need a break, but I can’t take one; the most I can do is distract myself with the fun of jobs that serve a purpose. I’ll have to go after something else tonight, maybe the Staff of Angharad, even though I don’t have a plan or schematics or anything. Just to take my mind off of this for five minutes. What kind of horrible mammals are they, to keep this kind of information away from the authorities?

Poor ones, if I get any say in it. When we’re ready to move, we’re going to clean them out so thoroughly they’ll have to sell their _toothbrushes_ just to make ends meet.

* * *

Jack is rarely ever waiting up for me when I get home, and he almost never says anything about the state of my fur or clothing, which I appreciate. I’ve already lost two mothers, I don’t need a third. For some reason, though, he’s waiting for me tonight, looking irritated in that old-mammal way he has. I always expect him to shout at me to get off his lawn, but tonight there’s something extra. I can’t tell what it is. I never could pick up on those little details. It’s one of my biggest failings, the reason I used to always think I had more friends than I did. I never knew which ones were mocking me and which were being genuine. It’s why I never saw Dawn’s scheming side...which is another thing I’m not strong enough to think about.

Jack, though, is good about being the same kind of angry every time. Usually I appreciate that, but whatever it is that got his panties in a knot this time, I don’t think it bodes well for our operation.

“You could have called,” he says, looking severe. “Do you know what I thought when your feed cut off and it took you three hours to get home?”

“That I must be stealing something,” I guess flippantly, because I usually am. Even Haven is basically stealing children, albeit with the permission of their parents.

Jack clicks his tongue. “You come home with blood in your fur. You come home late. Wired, like you’re on drugs, which – hell if I know, maybe you _are._ You shake in your sleep. You’re always running on empty. And you do your job, so I never bother you, but you’re a tasty treat out there. You’re not invincible. One of these days...”

“One of these days _what,”_ I hiss.

“You’re going to get hurt, beyond what any doctor can repair.”

“I _know!”_

He draws back deliberately. It hurts that he is so calculated, because I can’t tell if he’s trustworthy and I _hate_ it. He’s my brother. Shouldn’t that be enough?

“I know,” I repeat. “The dangers of the job are the first thing _Dad_ ever taught me. I’m not an idiot, Jack. I’m constantly doing risk assessments, and when I take action, I have decided that the rewards are greater than the risks. I have weapons. I have my training. And I have a plan for tonight. Those hours were just empty surveillance, nothing I needed to stream to you.”

“You’re still going after the ruby tonight? That’s _really_ not a good-”

“No.” I frown. “We need to find a way to film the savage bunny. But I thought it’d be a good time to go after the Staff of Angharad. We know where it is. I just have to get it.”

“You can’t sneak in there unless you can cut a hole in the glass, throw a PD into the right spot to turn off the alarm system, blow up the safe door – it’s a keypad lock with an automated rotating password, there’s _no way_ we can crack it without extensive research and a paw-made device tailored to the system – and find it before the cameras catch you.”

“I was thinking of taking the direct approach,” I say, trying not to laugh. He always thinks like a hacker, but although Sir was my mentor, I spent time training with Carmelita and Murray, too. I know the value of blunt-force strategy. How Jack always forgets his own mentor’s fondness for _explosives_ is beyond me.

“You mean…?”

“Yeah. I’m going to walk in the front door, declare my prize, and get it.”

He makes a face and grumbles, “That’s not a good idea either.”

“You know I’m good at it,” I say, trying not to be insulted.

“I still don’t want you to get hurt anymore.”

“Aww,” I say, just a tad meanly, “you’re so cute when you mother hen me.”

“Do whatever you want, Laverne Cooper. I don’t care,” he replies with a snarl, and honestly I consider this a job well done. Playing the cute card is below the belt, but at least it gets results.

* * *

The Curio Cabinet is a misnomer, and so we wouldn’t have thought to look here for the Staff of Angharad, which everyone else calls the Staff of Genevieve. On the surface, it’s your run-of-the-mill pawn shop, but to anyone who’s been underground for more than five minutes, it’s the location for the premiere fight club. Not capital-F, capital-C, like the Woodchuck Palahniuk book everybody thinks they’re so edgy for quoting, but the kind where two mammals get into a cage and beat on each other until one is unconscious. They have a loose system, weight classes, the sort of thing that prevents inconvenient deaths, but it’s a free-for-all MMA brawl. Knock-down, drag-out matches between angry fighters desperate for release.

Not usually my thing, but also not outside the realm of possibility. I would rather not pull a job with only three hours of prep, so I’ll need to declare the staff as my prize. If I lose, which is a possibility I have to acknowledge, I’ll still have seen that they have it. What Jack doesn’t know is that I already have a way into the vault without blowing up the door. I spent three hours today examining the structure of the building, and there was a weak spot in the ceiling near the back. Internally, the security is a joke; just some pressure sensors on the floor and some fixed-track cameras. As long as I don’t touch the ground inside the vault I can get the staff, and it will be easy to fuzz out the cameras for a few minutes, but I still need to be careful that I don’t accidentally grab the wrong item. Sometimes I hate my lack of night vision.

“Entry fee’s fifty bucks, cutie,” says the badger at the door. That’s fake; he’s charging predators twenty and large mammals thirty-five. The price difference is probably because predators will put on a better show with their claws and fangs and I look like I can’t even take one punch, which is speciesist toward them just as much as it is toward me, but it’s still garbage. I snarl at him for the lie and the cute comment, like Carmelita coached me to do, and hand over the money. The job is more important and we can spare it. Besides, when you’re a thief, money is mostly optional anyway.

The queue is longer than I expected it to be, but I’m not worried about anyone declaring the Staff of Angharad before I do. On its surface, it just looks like a pretty stick. Nobody except an antiquities enthusiast – or a Cooper – would know its true value. Most mammals would assume the value comes from the seemingly anachronistic makeup; it’s made of a titanium alloy core with a varnished wood shell, which shouldn’t be possible, since titanium wasn’t officially discovered until the 1700s. But Angharad Cooper’s staff was made of it, as supported by dating the other materials, and nobody outside of my family could possibly know that she kept it secret because she used it to break the law. One end is tapered perfectly for the crook they’ve passed down for centuries now. To everyone else, it probably looks like an old, uneven walking stick. It’s neither pretty nor interesting.

To me, it’s worth everything.

I watch as the other mammals tag their intended prizes. The way this works is everybody pays an entry fee and declares a prize; whoever wins each class gets the prize they declared and the proprietor is well compensated for her troubles. Normally I’d feel bad for planning a theft as a backup plan in case I don’t win tonight, but normally I’m not aiming for a piece of Cooper family history. I owe it to Sir to reclaim it. The proprietor paid Nick to steal it from some old lady, so I can count her as a thief by proxy, right? It counts.

“I want the Staff of Genevieve,” I say clearly when it’s my turn.

The gazelle in charge looks down his long, _long_ body at me and blinks. I know what he’s thinking – that I must be in the wrong place, or I must be suicidal – but I play fool and smile sweetly, pointing to the photo behind his head. In an exaggerated version of my old Bunnyburrow accent that sounds more Meadowbrook than anything, I add, “The varnished staff with ivy inlays. I’m a sucker for wood, you know.”

“Name?”

I want to say Cooper, but I won’t. I wouldn’t risk Sir’s legacy on pride, so I only tell him, “Alice the Trickster.”

One of my heroes, even as a child, was Compère Lapin. His tales were supposed to be vaguely cautionary, but I always thought he was so cool. He worked smart, not hard, and he was such a nice deviation from the mentality of farm folks. I always thought that, should I become a police officer, I would try to do it like he would; let the criminals hang themselves, so to speak. Once Sir took me on, I got to explore that part of me. I got to allow my sneaky side take over without worrying if maybe enjoying it made me a bad mammal. Murray called me Little Alice, after the bunny from the Wonderland books, so my whole name has a special meaning for me.

I’m a sentimental idiot, but I take my sunshine where I can get it.

I pop my pain pill into my mouth and swallow it down before it dissolves. Thank goodness bunnies don’t have a gag reflex, or taking pills dry would be a nightmare. As I blankly watch other mammals kick the crap out of each other, I sink into my plans. Whoever I match with, they’re going to be bigger than me. I’ll probably be okay as long as they’re not bigger than a wolf, but if there aren’t enough small-to-medium mammals fighting tonight, I might have to face off against someone much bigger. Maybe in my prime, I could have taken down someone in the megafauna class. Murray said that with the way I move, I could be a force to reckon with. But I don’t know if my body in its current state could take it. I talk a good game, but I’m one good drop-kick away from forced retirement. If I got hit by Carmelita’s shock pistol, I would probably die.

Maybe if I took a year off and got treatment, I could heal properly, but I don’t have that kind of time. The work doesn’t end. If Zootopia wants to rejoin Animalia, we have to either prove that we can function without the collars or prove that the collars are necessary for _all_ predators. If we don’t find a way to make the collars ineffective, or at least prove that “going savage” isn’t a disease that predators catch, then in a year and a half, collar legislation could be of national issue. Good mammals like Bobby Catmull, who could never hurt a fly, and even Gideon Grey, as awful as he was...they’re not monsters, but they could all be forced into those things, and for what? They don’t actually _do_ anything except hurt innocents and make stupid animals feel safer. I can only imagine what kinds of horrors someone in power could do with an army of collar-controlled predators. The kinds of horrors Nick might be forced to commit. I can’t let that happen to him or anyone else. I won’t. If stopping it causes my early death, so be it.

 _Focus._ That’s not the job tonight.

Notably, nobody is wearing a collar here. I knew that there were underground collar-free zones, but I didn’t really put together the implications of a fight club until now. The deer who runs this place is a genius. Draw business by uncollaring predators, even ones who aren’t planning to fight, and they’ll be loyal. I’ve never used the Curio Cabinet to hock anything, because we tend to use flyovers more often than not, but other mammals who _need_ a pawn shop will remember.

I _hate_ mammals who profit off others’ misery. If this place weren’t one of the only safe zones, I’d take them down.

In my relative size class there are two wolves, one fox, and a mid-sized sheep I can only assume is a mutant, or at least the product of a controlled pedigree like Dawn. If he’s a normal sheep, but that size, he can’t be more than a preteen, and they’d be stupid to allow a child to sign a waiver acknowledging the risk of grievous injury. I don’t want to fight the sheep. Fangs and claws are easy to avoid, if you’ve trained with canids, and in a fight that isn’t life-threatening, it’s unlikely a little slice or bite will slow me down. I just really don’t want to get hit with those hooves. One blow to the head could take me out for days, maybe even for good.

The two tigers in the cage move beautifully around each other, almost sensuously, and I am painfully reminded that I am not built for fighting. I’m all legs and jumps when I fight. Yeah, I can get the job done, but my strategy is built around my speed and agility. I fight like a trickster. It’s not pretty, like it is for these tigers. I’ve never considered my body to be a handicap, or lamented my lack of natural weapons, but I feel so...ugly, watching them. I’m a boring, ugly little bunny.

I close my eyes. I’ve never been able to meditate, but I do something similar where I allow all the sounds to flow through my brain without concentrating on any of them. There are certain sounds that I will respond to, though, like the sound of a weapon or the cry of a child or –

“And Alice the Trickster!”

– someone calling me.

I don’t know how long it’s been since I closed my eyes, but I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.

I squeeze myself into the cage to the sound of laughter and jeers. I know how it looks. A little bunny in a plain black top and flexible bottoms hardly seems threatening. If you look hard, you can see my scars, but the newest one is covered by the sleeve of my shirt. It’s healing just fine, and anyway, my pill kicked in while I was not-meditating. I’ve built up a pretty good tolerance for these; they hardly make me sleepy anymore, and I drank some coffee before I arrived so that should counteract any drowsiness. What they do for me, aside from suppressing the pain under a layer of chemical trickery, is make the world more...fluid. Or at least they make the world more interactive. My ability to hear decreases, but so does my ability to feel pain. In return for the sensory decrease, I’m able to think less. Allow my body to take over. I’ve been trained well enough that my body would do _better_ if my brain weren’t contradicting my instincts with all the analytical garbage.

My world narrows. It’s just me and my opponent, the gray fox. The stupid chatter from the crowd: irrelevant. The murmur of our clothing: irrelevant. His heart rate is elevated for the given value of his species. He moves like he’s fought on the streets. If he’s participating in an event like this, he’s good enough to win street fights, so that’s valuable knowledge. Though his heart rate is fast, his breathing is slow and even. He’s confident he can beat me.

I’m confident too. I give him my best, _cutest_ smile and say, “Come on, big boy. Aren’t you going to hit me?”

Murray used to tell me that punching is a language. It’s true. You can talk with your fists better than you can talk with your mouth, but it’s really only a useful language in specific situations. My jab to the fox’s chin is friendly, a sort of _nice to meet you_ punch. Easily blocked and not at all worrisome for an opponent. He moves well; he’s quick in pushing my fist to the side and stepping in to knee me in the face. Lucky for me, I have a powerful jump. I push off and land on his knee as he raises it, grabbing his ears and pushing off again to jerk him off balance. It leaves me vulnerable for a moment, but by the time he figures that out, I’m down on the ground again pulling _his_ face to _my_ knee.

I fully expect him to open his mouth and bite my leg. That’s what I’d do, and I’m prepared for it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches up to squeeze my butt with his claws, which hurts like the dickens usually, but under the influence I barely feel it. I give him a heel kick to the sternum to push him back a bit.

We circle each other. I can see that his steps are very precise; maybe he dances. Irrelevant. When he steps in, I do too; one of the worst mistakes a fighter my size can make is to run away from an attack that will make contact. Better to get in under his guard and –

Swing, spin, kick –

Duck, deflect, kick –

Deflect, _ow,_ I even felt that behind the pill haze, not doing that again –

My legs are my asset. Singular. My arms may be strong when it comes to endurance climbs, but I can’t deliver a good enough blow with a fist. I _can_ kick someone hard enough to make them see stars. As my foot makes contact with his head, he drops, visibly dazed. I take the opportunity to put him in a hold, pushing his arm up behind him. It’s the same one I used on Nick the other night, before he unmasked and tipped my world sideways. The fox under me jerks up and yelps when it hurts his shoulder.

“Stay down,” I tell him in the harsh voice I’ve practiced in the mirror for hours, “or I’ll take great pleasure in breaking your shoulder.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathes, and – the world shifts again. He lifts his voice and gives up, but my stupid heart is racing.

 _Yes, ma’am._ It’s funny. Males have called me ma’am before, more as a joke than anything, and I’ve always quietly enjoyed it. But in this context, with a body squirming below me, his safety in my paws, it sent a jolt through me that he could have taken advantage of, if he’d felt like it. I wonder why he didn’t. He could have won.

I follow him out of the cage, hyper-aware of him. Judging by the amount of sensation right now, my pill seems to have worn off, which is inconvenient. He sits next to me. My body hums. I pretend not to notice the noise he makes when I lick the blood off my paw where I scraped it on his fang during a punch.

The brown wolf begins to _thrash_ the gray one. Unlike the tigers and my fox, these two are brute force, a flurry of energy. I bite my lip. It might be outside my capabilities. But I can’t focus because my fox leans over and whispers, “They aren’t as good as you.”

The feel of his breath on me is electric. I make a show of pushing his muzzle away so that he won’t notice how my paws are shaking when I reply, “I’m taking notes. _Hush.”_

“Yes, ma’am.”

The little shit knows what that does to me, I’ll bet. It may be impolite to acknowledge what we pick up with our ancestral gifts, but that doesn’t mean we don’t use them. I’m sure he can smell the shift in my hormones, even if he doesn’t know exactly what the shift means. It’s easy to extrapolate.

I can hear him panting. “Seriously, can’t you be quiet?”

“Not when I’ve got the hottest mammal in front of me. Sorry, Miss Alice, but I have a thing for fighters.”

I turn to face him, maybe tell him off for being rude, but...I can see that his pupils are wide and he has that sheen on his fur. He’s not kidding or trying to degrade me, our fight really did turn him on. And it turned me on too. It always does. Usually it’s easy to ignore because the other party never feels the same, but now…

Screw it, I’m not equipped to go up against wolves and sheep with a broken heart and stitches in my shoulder. I’ll just break in later, like I should have planned from the beginning.

“Follow me,” I tell him, standing. There has to be a bathroom in this basement. He follows me closely, paw on my shoulder. His thumb rubs circles on the fur above my scapula. I think I might explode.

I’m not a virgin, but on the whole I tend to prefer does over bucks; I never feel pressure with females like I do with males, never feel self-conscious or inadequate or ugly. It’s been a long time since I did this at all, and longer still since I did it with a male, but I’m committed. I want this. Maybe I need it, too. They say getting laid makes you feel better, makes you focus better. We go through a door to what looks like a storage room, boxes piled along one side and chairs scattered around. I lock the door behind us for privacy.

My back hits the door as I turn back to him. He goes for my neck, licking the pulse point and nipping at it with his front teeth. It sends sensation all the way through me and draws a choking cry from my throat. The thief in me wants to be silent. The bunny in me wants to enjoy this even if it means being loud. Tonight, I’m going to let the bunny win. Just for now.

I run my paws through the fur on his belly under his shirt and shudder as he runs the tips of his claws over the fur on my back. I can smell him, tired and musky and turned on, and I want him _so badly._ I go for the inside tie on his pants, yanking it open and pushing down on the fabric enough to reach inside and coax him out. He lets out a chesty whine that does more for me than anything else thus far.

“Please, Alice,” he says into my headfur. Right, I’m Alice. And I’m in charge. With one paw I continue to stroke his testicles, and with the other I pull my own pants out of the way. I catch one of _his_ paws, the one that isn’t exploring where he squeezed me earlier, and push it down into my underwear. He doesn’t get a free handjob. _I’m in charge_ here. He obeys the unspoken command and begins to pet me. It’s funny how paws that sharp can be so gentle when it counts.

As his penis emerges, I do what I can to make it go faster, rubbing and squeezing as test maneuvers until I’m pretty sure I know what he likes. He clearly knows what females usually like. He hasn’t bothered to try to finger me at all, just keeps rubbing at my clit like he was born to do it.

“Wait a minute,” I tell him. My voice is a bit thick. He pauses and I add, “Let’s back up. Go sit on that chair. It’ll be easier if you’re sitting down.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replies, and _God,_ I can’t begin to describe what that does for me. I’m not a control freak, except I actually am, and being in charge is a rush. I didn’t even ask to be in charge, he just assumed I would be, and that makes it even hotter. I don’t bother to hold back a noise of appreciation as he sits and pushes his pants down further to make room for me. I saw a few bunny penises back in high school, and they were all pretty much alike. Boring, kind of gross, unsatisfying in general. This is something entirely different. I’m pretty sure it’s not going to fit all the way, but I don’t care. It’s attached to someone who will follow my commands. Males so often have an ego thing that tells them submitting to a female will make them less of a male, but not so with him. I find this kind of self-confidence, his apparent _knowledge_ that the kind of sex you have doesn’t determine your worth as a mammal, even more sexy than the actual acts we’re about to do.

I kneel on his thighs and suck on his neck before biting down. Not enough to do real damage, but enough for him to feel it. He whines again and brings his paws up to grip my hips. I hold them down tightly. He could break my grasp if he wanted, but he doesn’t try. He only looks at me like I’m something shiny. A real treasure instead of just me. In a low, husky voice, he asks, “What do you want?”

I want him to wear my cuffs and lick me until I orgasm. I want him to kneel and hold off his own orgasm while I play with him. I want him to beg me. But that’s stuff you can only do with mammals you trust. So I grin and say, “I want you inside of me, big boy. Do you want that?”

After all, I’m not a monster, even if sometimes it seems like I am one.

“Yes, _please.”_

I allow gravity to take me, spreading my knees over his thighs to allow him to enter my vagina. He’s bigger than anyone else I’ve been with and if I weren’t so wet already it would probably hurt. He groans as I sink further, and it gets lost in my own trill of excitement. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should be out there trying to fight so I won’t have to come back and steal the staff later. But it’s been _so long_ since I allowed myself release.

His claws prick into my hips as we accelerate our pace, but I don’t care. It doesn’t hurt. I go back to biting his neck, because he clearly liked it, and when he makes that keening noise I think of how much I’d like to hear that coming from _Nick’s_ mouth.

Oh, cripes, did the room just get hotter?

As I lose myself in the fox under me, I lose control over my thoughts. This is suddenly Nick’s body, Nick’s paws on my hips, Nick’s moans of pleasure. My opponent moves his thumb to stroke my clit again and that’s Nick’s thumb. This fox hasn’t done anything I haven’t told him, verbally or nonverbally, to do. I would love for Nick to follow my commands. I want to take him just like this, overwhelm him with sensation and let him know he’s _mine,_ which means I’ll keep him safe or make him happy and hope the two intersect more often than not.

To my surprise, I climax before he does. It makes my back arch and my muscles tense up. I want to keep going, to bring him along with me, but this kind of intense pleasure is paralyzing. He thrusts upward in the absence of my motion and releases inside of me, saying _thank you, thank you, thank you._ We both sit there and shake for a while, endorphins wreaking havoc in our brains.

This was a tremendously bad idea, but I can’t even consider regretting it.

“Y-you made a mess,” I say with a laugh as I lift myself off of him. My thighs are totally gross. We’ll have to clean up in the bathroom and hope nobody notices in the interim. “Maybe I should make you lick me clean.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed,” he says, sounding slightly hopeful if I’ve read him right, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. That’s the kind of response I’d want if I said that to – _Nick._ If the sex were this good all the time and we had more than fighting in common, I could probably fall for this fox, but that wouldn’t be fair. I’m a thief. I didn’t even give him my real name. And I think I can safely say that I’m pining for a mammal I’m shamelessly using.

I almost tell him to do it anyway. I like the thought of a tough guy like him submitting to me, eating his own ejaculate off of me like a _very_ good boy, and maybe in a different world it would be okay to do this. But the high of my orgasm is wearing off, and I feel kind of dumb for blowing off my chance to win the staff just to have sex with someone I don’t even know. So I give him a grin and say, “Maybe next time. You were too good. I think a follow-up act would just wear me out.”

“Yeah, maybe. Look me up if you’re ever interested in an encore,” he says casually. I hope I haven’t hurt his feelings.

“I will,” I reply, and I mean it. I just probably won’t allow myself to be interested again.

I watch him pull up his wet pants and saunter out, not at all self-conscious, and think about all the times I’ve stared at Nick’s tail when he didn’t know I was there. Their hips do the same sway when they walk. It could be a fox thing, but it could just be a confidence thing. Why am I such a creep? Why can’t I just be present with...the mammals I’m with, and _God_ I’m such a piece of trash for not even asking for his name. I shouldn’t be thinking of Nick when some other fox has his dick buried inside of me. I shouldn’t be thinking of Nick moaning in pleasure or on his knees or in cuffs or _at all._ But now it’s all I can think about, and I’m probably going to think about non-thief-stuff next time I see him.

...I’m in so much trouble, aren’t I?

* * *

I was right: even though I kind of feel bad about using that guy for anonymous sex, it’s so much easier to focus now that I am no longer pent up. I feel like things are clearer. I feel more relaxed and in control of my own emotions. It might throw a minor wrench into my relations with Nick, but he’s a fellow thief. If I act weirder than usual, he will likely put it down to process and leave it alone until I can stop thinking of him like this. And yeah, sure, he’s a grifter, very attuned to animal behavior, but I’ve never known how to be _normal._ Acting more abnormal isn’t exactly a clue, is it? I’d be willing to bet that most of my stress comes from worrying too much about things that don’t matter half as much as I worry about them.

Now comes the fun part. A lot of bunnies don’t like enclosed spaces. I guess I can’t blame them, considering our history; it’s too much like a cage. But before civilization, we used to be excellent tunnelers. We lived underground. There’s no reason to not embrace our more useful ancestral talents, at least that’s what Carmelita told me, and it makes sense. I don’t get claustrophobic, because I pay attention to the cues I get from my whiskers. I don’t mind the dark, because I use my ears and the vibrations to map out my surroundings. It’s nothing so cool as what a bat can do, but it helps me navigate pitch black spaces.

I dig carefully, switching on my night vision setting just for a moment. I’m trying to keep my presence minimal, which means going as low-tech as possible until the very last second, but I need to make sure I’m digging right on the X I made earlier.

One thing I’ve never been able to shake is my penchant for manual labor. It’s a side effect of growing up on a farm; you were either in school or working the fields, during the on season, and during the off season we had cleaning and spraying and renovations. Machine maintenance, food processing, packing and shipping, _planting._ I learned to value hard work at a young age, and even though I always tried to find little tricks that would make it go faster and be easier – work smart, like Compère Lapin – it was never hard to sink into the almost meditative motions of digging and any other methodical labor. So digging my bunny-sized hole is hardly a chore. It reminds me of times that were simpler, before the quarantine, before Mayor Gooseberry, back when I was just plain old Judy Hopps and I thought my parents loved me unconditionally.

It’s funny. Most of the time I don’t even miss them anymore. When I think back on it, I’m not sure why I was ever surprised. Dawn told me Stu said I was dead to them when I got arrested, and when I called for myself, unable to just _visit,_ he told me to stop calling from his dead daughter’s number. It hurt then, enough that I cried for probably an hour and got snot all over Dawn’s pretty blue dress. It doesn’t hurt now. He was the one who told me all foxes were out to hurt me like Gideon did, but Sir and Carmelita were the ones who rescued me from starving to death and gave me a family when I had no one. Carmelita taught me how to fire a gun, how to fight like a cop, how to use the canid cues that tell mammals to _back off._ She helped me heal while Sir helped me find a purpose.

I always thought that family was something you were born into, but now I believe family is something you choose. I chose a family that wouldn’t abandon me if I followed my conscience.

I break through the weak spot and hook a rope to the strut with a climbing carabiner, turning on my night vision glasses again. It’s been a while since I lowered myself with a belay device instead of allowing my brother to lower me remotely, but this feels so much safer anyway. I’m completely in control of my own abseiling speed, where I stop, how much swing I have. Even if I always have manual safeties, it’s an act of trust to allow someone else to dictate those things, and...I make a conscious effort to not be as trusting as I used to be. I’m not stupid enough to ignore my experience: mammals aren’t trustworthy, and the good ones disappear. And maybe I forget sometimes, but when you get down to it, there is one mammal alive I trust implicitly, and she’s right here in my head.

I can see the staff. It’s so _pretty_ right there, nestled between an ugly wardrobe and a pedestal holding a funny little dagger that I’m totally going to steal. As soon as I drop through the hole, I throw up a smoke screen. Sometimes the classics are the best; no amount of hacking can match a physical obstruction, and if anyone randomly comes to check the vault they’ll still be caught in the smoke. I push myself off the wall with a kick, swinging through the haze. I only have two good swings before the smoke begins to clear, so I have to make it count. Fortunately, I snag the staff on my first try, but it knocks the dagger off the pedestal, which sets off the pressure sensors. Ugh, dammit, I wanted that.

I shimmy up the rope and climb out of the hole into the attic just in time to hear a member of the night shift begin to open the vault door. I’m not sticking around to listen; that’s how amateurs get caught. I don’t have the decades of experience under my belt that Sir did, so I’d rather not take that risk. I put the staff in my mouth and climb up the ladder I used to get in, and once I reach the roof, I take a running jump. It’s a bit of a gamble; if I can make it over the fence on the roof next to this one, I’ll be home free. If I land on this side –

Ugh, that _hurt._ The wind goes out of me as my roll takes me straight into the fence. I see double and my ears ring, but I can’t stop, not until I get out of range. It takes me two jumps to snag the very top of the fence and I feel the barbs prick into my skin as I vault over, but I don’t have time to find a different way forward. I’m going to feel this in the morning. Probably the next couple of days too. I jump down to the grass, letting my momentum take me into another roll, and scurry up the trellis on the next building. Once I reach the top, I jump up and pull myself onto the wide rim of the bathhouse roof. This is where I was hoping to get without messing up, but at least I made it with minor injuries. This is a perfect blind spot; there are no cameras or other pieces of technology up this high, and this is a new building without a solid fire escape. Even if someone comes up here, I’ll be hidden because of the angle of the door.

I can feel my heart racing. Not good. I take some deep breaths and root around in my backpack for the crook Jack and I designed. Here’s the real test: did we do it right? All we had was historical records and math to work from. I click the hidden catch on the staff and set the crook on the sturdy screw. With a few sharp turns, it’s perfectly attached. I swing it, smiling through the pain of my injuries. The weight is perfect. I did it.

_I did it._

I reclaimed Cooper history, and I did it on my own. This was my plan. It was my decisions that led to a good outcome. This isn’t the Staff of Genevieve anymore, it’s the Staff of Angharad. A Cooper cane. It belongs to Judy Laverne Cooper, and anyone who wants to take it away from me can do so over my dead body.

As I crouch on the rooftop, my new cane in my grasp, I feel something like complete. You could make the argument that I’m just a pathetic loser dressing up in Daddy’s clothes, and you might not be wrong. Every part of my adult life, after I got beaten up by a group of sheep for defending the vixen who would eventually step in as a trainer and mother, has been dictated by my gratitude toward other mammals. But if I could go back in time and _not_ try to pick Sly Cooper’s pocket, I wouldn’t. I’m proud to be a thief. And I think – if he were still alive – he’d be proud of me too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this explained why Judy has been so damn mercurial. Despite her desire for praise and affirmation, Judy’s very independent, unlikely to let anyone else’s expectations inform her life. In canon, we saw the downside: she didn’t ask for help, she demanded it. In this universe, where she fully understands the stakes and has lost everyone she’s ever cared about except Jack, that trait is necessarily dialed up to eleven. On the other hand, she blames herself for not protecting her loved ones well enough...even though she knows that's illogical...and compensates by throwing herself into her work so she doesn't have to think. She is literally killing herself, just very slowly. When you’re at the point where you know you’re going to die anyway, you can get reckless and play to your own ego. Plus, stress makes us crazy. You can bet her new teammates are going to have some words for her if they ever find out.


	7. The Family Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Coopers meet the Wildes. The Market is a rousing success. Nick not-so-accidentally learns more about Haven. The crew does a test run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7 is the worst, but I think this is the final hump before it's all theft, hugs, and rock&roll.
> 
> This takes place pretty much immediately after chapter 5, where chapter 6 took place during chapter 5. I’m about ready to flay myself open because I need a fucking drink and can’t have one, so let’s go do the thing.

The Judy Cooper that answers Nick’s knock is not the same Judy Cooper he said goodbye to just days ago. Despite having a swollen cheek – seriously? _Another_ injury? – she seems much more relaxed. Happy, even. This is a mammal he could probably have a drink with. Not that Nick would ever drink in public, but he could _pretend_ to have a drink...never mind. Wherever that thought was trying to go, it’s not there now.

“Come on in, partner,” she says cheerily, stepping aside. “How do you like the glasses?”

“They’re certainly glasses,” he replies, because he’s never claimed to not be petty, and he doesn’t want to give praise to something her prick of a brother designed. He pulls them off and folds them into his breast pocket.

“Whew. I wondered about your powers of perception, but now I see I was unduly worried,” she snarks back. She shuts and bolts the door behind him, and he has the unsettling sensation of being _trapped,_ but she’s not an enemy. At worst, they’re mildly antagonistic allies, but if Jack was telling the truth at the coffee shop, Judy actually likes him. It’s a weird and uncomfortable feeling, being liked. He keeps searching for angles and not finding any that make sense. She’s either sneaking in from another dimension or she’s genuine, and he’s not sure which would be worse. Nick _hates_ letting down mammals who matter, and he has to let her down eventually before she and her brother ruin his life. She shouldn’t matter, but when was the last time anyone liked him after getting to know who he really is?

There’s something different about the apartment, too. It’s subtle, but it’s a new scent, or...no. A lack of the scent he’s associated with Judy since he met her. “Nobody’s bleeding.”

She gives him a weird look. “That is accurate, yes.”

“You always smell like blood,” he clarifies, “but your new injuries are days old, aren’t they? Have you been laying low, or are you just turning over a new leaf?”

She frowns and sniffs her own arm. Didn’t he just tell her she _doesn’t_ smell like blood? What exactly does she think that’s going to accomplish? He hides a grin by moving past her and jumping up onto the oversized couch. The squeak of the motion seems to wake her from whatever musings she had going on and she steps into the kitchen, almost hidden from view but not quite until she opens a cupboard door. “Want a snack? I have a pot full of cookies in here. You’ve just caught us at a bad time.” She grunts and there’s an obnoxious grinding noise, presumably the pot dragging across a rough surface. “There’s a lot going on right now, what with Haven and our big job. Also, that’s really ooky. Didn’t anybody tell you it’s rude to let on that you _notice_ stuff like that?”

There it is...the urge to tease her for being simultaneously uptight and shady as hell. “Can’t I be concerned about a _friend?”_

A loud _thump_ and a muffled _ow_ comes from her general direction. He doesn’t quite manage to hide his laughter, and she pokes her head around the cabinet door, holding the back of her head. “You’re a mean one, Mr. Wilde. I know you don’t really like me. You don’t have to pretend.”

“Oh,” he says, and feels like a jerk. Some part of him hates her for making him feel anything at all, and another small part of him is grateful for it because honestly sometimes the collar-induced apathy makes him feel less than mammal. He scrambles for something reassuring, even though he doesn’t need to say anything at all. “I don’t _dislike_ you, Carrots, I just don’t trust you. You shouldn’t trust anybody. I do believe you’re trying to do good, though, and I guess I can respect that. Even if I think it’s kind of a waste of time.”

“A waste of time?” Her voice is unduly small. He still feels like a jerk, but this time he doesn’t even know why. “I may not be smart like you and Jack, but I’m not the dumb bunny mammals think I am. I’m good at what I do, and because of that, _I know the truth._ I found it. The missing link. You want to know _why_ this isn’t a waste of time, Nicholas Piberius Wilde?”

He fights the instinct to curl up as she advances on him, now looking angry. Not frustrated or flustered, but truly _furious,_ and he can’t help but think of how handily she floored him on that balcony or how easy it is for her to scurry up ropes and pipes or how she can push through the pain of being _split open_ like it’s nothing. There’s a reason she usually smells like blood. He knows it’s wisest to remember that. She hops up beside him and pokes him in the chest. The light on his collar blinks faster and he tries to regulate his breathing before it turns to yellow or red. She bares her teeth. “A bunny can go savage. A bunny _has_ gone savage. It’s not just predators. It’s everyone. So either you’re right and it’s a disease – in which case _everyone_ should be collared, for all of our safety – or I’m right and it’s a bio weapon, in which case _nobody_ should be collared and the designer should be caught and punished. So before you tell me that trying to prevent my country from committing a terrible injustice is a _waste of time,_ think about that.”

His heart sinks and he’s overwhelmed with nausea. That can’t be. It _can’t._ He’s seen what happens when someone undergoes a primal regression. It’s terrifying – claws and fangs and mindless rage, nothing but the instinct to attack and kill. That’s not a prey trait. She has to be wrong. Misinformed somehow. “No. That’s...it isn’t _possible,_ it’s…”

“It’s sinister,” she says, much more gently. “We don’t know how many prey mammals have gone savage, but we know of at least one. A bunny _kit._ They’re hiding her so that nobody finds out. I have...I have video footage of a doctor talking about it in secret. We’re working on a way to get a recording of the savage kit.”

 _Video footage._ That’s not complete conjecture. “But…”

“Someone’s covering something up,” she tells him, awkwardly patting his forearm as his claws dig into his own thighs. He notes, in his flat drift from his own body, that her paw looks ridiculously small. “We don’t know who, and we don’t _really_ know why, but it’s not okay and we’re not going to stand for it. So many mammals have been hurt by this lie, and Animalia is pushing for country-wide collar legislation, and they’re talking about it in other countries too. Based on a _lie._ I have no proof, but I think my family _died_ for the secret. Avenging them is part of it, but I wish...I mean, I _hope..._ I. I want you, if you’re amenable, to help me save…”

“Save the world,” he says blankly. “You want to save the goddamn world.”

“I guess so,” she replies, looking away.

“Do you even have a _plan?”_

“I was hoping you’d help us come up with one,” she admits, the beginnings of a smile appearing at the corners of her mouth. “I’m good at thinking on my feet, doing the whole _thief_ thing, but long-term plans tend to go fuzzy when I try to think them up. I have dreams, not objectives. Jack may be the smartest mammal I know in terms of academics, but he isn’t very adaptable. _You,_ however, have exactly the kind of brain we need to work out an effective plan of action. We need a mastermind. That’s you.”

 _Don’t let them see that they get to you,_ his brain cautions.

“I’m a grifter,” he says aloud. “That’s all sneak and schmooze. I’m not a leader.”

“I can be a leader. I _like_ being a leader. We don’t need you to lead us, but to...guide _me._ I’m not unaware of my own flaws, Nick. I’m short-sighted. Impatient. Often _too_ focused to be objective. Words are the most important weapon, and I’m not very good with those. I believe that with your help, we can succeed. You may not believe in yourself, but I believe in you.”

_Don’t let her see that she gets to you._

_Don’t let her see._

_Don’tletherseedon’tlethersee_

Nothing doing; it happens anyway. Nick’s chest tightens and his breaths shallow, narrowing the world to his immediate vicinity. The light on his collar turns yellow, but he can’t _help_ it, there’s something growing, something harsh and unyielding, and he feels her leave his side as the warning sparks shoot through his system, and his limbs twitch and he tastes metal and it _hurts_ and he tries to brace himself for the real thing but –

It all leaves, along with the pressure around his throat.

Judy’s holding his collar in one paw and some unholy mishmash of electronic parts in the other, an ugly look painted on her face. _That’s_ not a real key, but it apparently works like one. She throws the collar across the room in anger and then grabs his left paw, working her thumbs into the pad. His fingers splay at the sensation, a firm release of tension he didn’t know he had. His head’s still fuzzy and the world has turned sideways, just a little, but he focuses on her tiny paws and listens to her babble.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that would...I should have gotten you out of that as soon as you arrived. You deserve more. Hospitality. Bonnie would be appalled. No she wouldn’t. But I can pretend. I didn’t want you to get hurt, I swear, I was just...I wanted you to feel exactly as powerful as you really are. Criminal justice is the only kind of justice _left_ and I know you’ll be so good at it. I do believe in you. Please don’t be mad.”

“...I’m not mad,” he manages through the haze. He doesn’t think it’s all from the shocks, because he’s gotten pretty good at drifting through those. Nobody’s _ever_ given him this kind of positive attention before. Belief? In someone like him? It’s absurd, especially coming from prey.

“Here, give me your other paw,” she says, and he does so. It feels really good, after all. His eyes close involuntarily at the treatment. How can she be so gentle with him after so ruthlessly taking him down?

“You seem different,” he tells her, “and not just because you’re not bleeding.”

“She got laid.” Ah, there’s the little jackwad. His scent is all over the apartment, so Nick didn’t even notice him sneaking into the room like a creep. “The same night she pulled a _really stupid job._ Honestly I thought she slept with _you,_ but that’s clearly not the case. Must have been another fox.”

That little gem makes Nick uncomfortable. Why would he have a fling with a bunny he barely knows? For that matter, why would Judy have a fling with a _fox_ she barely knows? It seems like a pointless risk. _Did_ she sleep with another fox? That wouldn’t make sense. Maybe Jack is mistaken. Or lying. The _mechanics_ of that probably wouldn’t even work, and anyway, there are plenty of possibilities. Maybe she slept with another bunny. Or she didn’t sleep with anybody and Jack’s just assuming. Yeah, that’s more likely. She doesn’t seem like the type to be _that_ impulsive.

(Reckless. That _is_ a word that describes her, but...no, it’s too weird.)

He’s not going to think about it.

“Ignore him, he’s just mad that I don’t ask permission to live my life,” she says, rolling her eyes. Infighting is bad for business, but then, Nick isn’t a fan of Jack by any measure, so he’s not exactly opposed to a little bit of ragging on him. “That night I brought home the Staff of Angharad. It was _important_ to reclaim that piece of Cooper family history. Are...are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, and realizes that he kind of _is._ He’s not sure why. It makes no sense. This whole thing is insane and he should still be panicking, but he’s not. It will probably hit him later, but right now… “Yeah, I think I am.”

“Good, then we can start planning,” she says, and something – he’s not sure what – bubbles up in his chest when he opens his eyes to a bright, shining smile. No. He does know what it is; he just forgot what it felt like until now. Pride feels pretty good.

* * *

It is with trepidation that he leads Judy and Jack into the home on Lemon Avenue. He knows that Finnick and Ruth aren’t going to like it, but there is sound logic in _not_ planning a heist in an apartment in the Spiral Edge. Nick is visible enough, by face if not by name; if he visits a couple of shut-ins, it’s a little bit suspicious but not remarkable. If he, a blind former grifter, and a bruiser-by-commission visit these shut-ins, it’s a dead giveaway that _something_ is going on. But Nick lives in a much nicer part of town with less nosy neighbors. Judy might have stood out with that weird crook thing she insisted on bringing, but she put the head of it in her backpack and used the staff as a walking stick, pretending a limp.

“I smell _food,”_ says Ruth from the comfortable chair as soon as they walk in, causing Jack to tense, nose a-twitch. Judy bares her teeth in what appears to be a cross between a delighted grin and a wind-up for a vicious response. Oh, here they go. This is exactly what he was afraid of.

“That would be me,” Judy says with enthusiasm, stalking toward Ruth, and _stalking_ is putting it lightly. She looks more like a predator in this moment than anybody else Nick has seen, excluding the savage wolf. “Judy Cooper, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’d offer you my paw, but you’d probably try to bite it, and then I’d have to kick an old lady’s teeth in.”

Ruth almost (but not quite) snarls. Judy looks on impassively, letting Ruth get it out of her system. Interestingly, Ruth’s collar light does not change from green to red or even yellow. Finally, his mother says, “Right. A little bunny, able to kill me before I kill her? I may be blind, Kit, but I am not broken.”

“Mom,” he says warily.

“Of course not,” Judy says, soft and sweet. It isn’t condescending, at least not on its face, but Nick is sure that Judy is winding up for something that isn’t at all pleasant. Sure enough, she adds, “Why would I kill you? You’re far too big to fit in my stomach, and I don’t kill what I can’t eat.”

Finnick, from the other end of the room, makes a startled noise. Nick just sighs in resignation, deciding to let them get this pissing contest out of the way.

“Bunnies don’t eat meat. You must be dumber than you sound,” Ruth scoffs.

“I wasn’t aware that I sounded smart. That’s good to know,” Judy replies easily, which – yeah, that’s actually a good one. “I guess you’re not as blind as you look. Maybe your son should have learned more from you, considering he’s agreed to be my partner.”

Nick wants to disappear. _Honestly._ This is getting embarrassing, especially with Jack watching in what appears to be disgusted fascination and Finnick trying to control his laughter. Is there anyone in this group with a _shred_ of sanity left?

Ruth laughs from her chest, but it isn’t a nice laugh. Nick has never shared that chilly, cynical sound with his mother, and he’s glad about that. It’s not the kind of laugh that makes mammals want to trust you, it’s a laugh that makes them want to run. Judy, though, stands her ground as Ruth retorts, “My Nicholas would never truly partner with _prey._ You bunnies are all the same. Soft and stupid, but too tricky to trust.”

 _“Mom,”_ he says again, but predictably, nobody listens.

“Yes, that is accurate. I’m stupid enough to betray my parents and move to Zootopia to follow my dreams instead of carrying on the _oh-so-noble_ profession of carrot farming, soft enough to look adorable and nonthreatening as I steal your wallet, and tricky enough to blackmail a grifter into helping me expose a conspiracy. As a random example, of course; I would never do that specifically. That would be _wrong.”_

Okay, so maybe it’s a better idea to leave, like, _right now._ Judy is unfamiliar with the state of affairs. She probably believes that Nick and his mother get along. She probably believes that a falling-out over ideals means severing contact entirely. She can’t possibly know about Ruth’s disparaging comments and frustrating inability to see beyond her own experiences. But this is like a grotesque tennis match, and Finnick is still laughing, and Judy has proven that she can wipe the floor with him if she’s really set on staying.

“I told my son to stay away from prey. You are weak and easily frightened, even if you pretend you are not. You will _hurt him.”_

“I might, and he might hurt me. That’s the nature of the job, Ruth Wilde, and you know it. Allowing someone into your life makes you vulnerable. A certain level of trust is required, and that’s a risk. I get it, you love your son more than you could ever _possibly_ express, but if you think for _one second_ that I won’t shake the earth if it means keeping my allies as safe as possible, you might want to ask Mr. Big why he commissioned a hit on Judy Hopps all those years ago. I broke my fibula and dislocated my hip. Raymond is a _vegetable.”_ Nick resolves to ask about _that_ particular nugget of horrifying information as soon as he stops hallucinating a fight between Ruth Wilde and Judy Cooper. Judy’s face is screwed up and her teeth are still visible. It doesn’t have the same effect that it might have if she had fangs, but rabbit teeth are still unsettling; long, strong enough to rip flesh, and worse, they never stop growing no matter how many times they’re broken. “I might be prey, but as a thief, I’m still a hunter. I don’t care if you like or trust me, but I do care that you believe I might neglect my duty to my crew. You and your sons are family now; as of today, the only one higher on my priority list is myself.”

Nick...is floored, a little. He feels cold and hot all at the same time somehow. Judy apparently takes alliances seriously – much more seriously than Nick thought was possible. Judy’s first and truest love is treasure, but he remembers her mentioning that mammals are just as precious as gold. Ruth’s face is inscrutable, despite his familiarity with her moods. For once, he’s not sure what she’s thinking. “You put yourself first?”

“Of course. I’m not much good if I’m incapacitated or dead. Though if you have the secret to immortality, I’m all ears.” She grins, and Nick’s heart sinks as he realizes where this is going. “Sorry. I’m _half_ ears.”

Finnick finally loses control and laughs aloud, his wheezing guffaws grating on Nick’s brain. This is a nightmare, but why isn’t he waking up? _Why?_

Ruth snorts. “It’s too bad you’re prey, little bunny, although I suppose you can’t help the way you were born. You’ll take me to tea tomorrow.”

Judy blinks, clearly thrown off-balance. “What?”

“Noon, I think.”

_“What.”_

“There is a tea house two blocks from this house. If I remember correctly, it says TEA on the sign.”

“I...yes, I know it.”

“You’ll take me there tomorrow at noon.”

“Okay,” says Judy, sounding highly confused but apparently deciding to just go with it.

What

Just

_Happened?_

Did the crazy bunny thief and _his mother_ just team up? The universe is conspiring against him, he’s sure of it. There’s a terrible conspiracy and he’s teaming up with actual violent thieves with terrifying technology in their arsenal and now, his mother is taking Judy to _tea._ He’s not going to be invited. He’ll have no idea what they’re talking about...what they’re _planning..._ and Finnick is gasping for air, and Jack has a look of _actual alarm_ on his face. As Judy and Ruth somehow manage to share identical shark-like grins, Nick prays to all the deities that don’t exist for a portal to the underworld to open and swallow him whole. It doesn’t happen.

Finnick is still laughing.

Nick opens his mouth to call everything off, but then there’s a _ping!_ and Finnick immediately gets control over his laughter, because of course he does. The auction is on, and at Finnick’s declaration, everyone who isn’t blind huddles around the computer, watching the numbers tick. Without knowing who is who, and without having sent in a bid on anything, Nick only knows how much his opal is selling for, but that’s all he cares about anyway.

500,000. 750,000. 830,000. And the numbers stop at _900,000._

Finnick whoops excitedly and Jack gives them a little golf clap, but Judy...Judy _hugs_ him, and he can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable or not. It’s not like they haven’t hugged before, but that was different. He was stealing from her then, and this time he’s hot around the collar – metaphorically – because _nine hundred thousand bucks._ Even subtracting the market fees, that’s more money than he’s ever handled in his life.

Oh, what the hell. He wraps his arms around her and allows the comfort in. This isn’t vulnerability, this is _joy._ He can share this victory with her because she helped him steal it, technically. And finally, he sees: _this is why she wants him._ Even getting in each other’s way, they swiped the Heart of the Galaxy from one of the most guarded private residences in the _city_ and sold it for almost as much as it’s worth. If they pool their resources, they could very well be unstoppable. Is this what optimism feels like? It’s as terrifying as it is wonderful. He wants more.

Nine hundred thousand bucks and a warm bunny in his arms and – an uncomfortable silence?

“Should we leave you two alone,” Jack asks. Nick opens his eyes (when did he close them!?) to see blank looks from both Jack and Finnick. He steps away from Judy. She picks a few gray strands of fur off of his yellow floral shirt and he pats her head awkwardly. It feels like a scene out of one of those stupid sitcoms his dad used to watch while he was working fabric through his Bearnina, the machine loud enough to cover the quiet voices but not the laugh track.

“Yes,” Judy says teasingly. “I need to ravish this fox.”

Nick pats her on the head again, even more awkwardly than before. “Don’t say stuff like that, he’ll take you seriously.”

She beams up at him. “Who says I’m not being serious? You’re _loaded,_ Nick. I need a sugar daddy.”

There’s a collective chuckle, and Nick’s sure it’s at his expense. Why does he have to be the straight mammal, exactly? Why can’t everybody else stop being...weird, angry, lightly sanded thieves. Now he gets that, too. How many times has he used humor to cover his own despair? How many times has he made dark, borderline disturbing jokes to make the world less real? They’ve all had their share of trauma and heartbreak, probably even Jack, as loath as Nick is to give him an inch. Up until now, Nick has believed these collars were necessary. He’s always hated it, the itch, the shocks, the way it makes him _other_ far more than his teeth do. But he’s been grateful for it, too, knowing that if he caught the regression disease he wouldn’t be responsible for anybody’s death. Judy’s family died for this, though, _knowing_ they weren’t necessary, and she never found out how. The effect is completely different, but he’s pretty sure that while he lost his freedom, she lost herself. There’s no other logical way to explain how she can be so ruthless and harsh, but then turn around and be sweet and gentle even to someone she doesn’t really know.

“You lied when you told me she was insufferable, Wilde,” Finnick teases, pulling Nick from his thoughts.

“Oh, Jude, that’s got to be the nicest thing anyone’s said about you in months,” Jack offers, and with that inexpressive voice, Nick can’t even be certain he’s joking. “You’re making friends. Inspector Montoya would be so proud.”

Judy bats her eyes at Jack and says, in a sweet tone similar to the one Nick uses on his more stubborn marks, “I’m gonna spank you so hard you won’t sit right for a week, cutie-pie.”

Jack _goes silent,_ although Finnick snickers again, and Ruth says, “Come over here and talk to me, Bunny.”

Nick just feels weird. He’s uncomfortable all over, especially when Judy does as Ruth ordered and kneels next to the comfortable chair. Her hips are curvier than he remembers. Is that because she’s gained weight or she’s wearing something new, or is it his imagination minimizing her figure for the purposes of self-preservation?

“If you fuck my sister, they won’t find your body,” Jack says.

Finnick laughs again, clearly still riding the high of winning almost a million dollars. “Kit, if you think Nick would even _touch_ that bunny, you’re crazier than a snake with a parasite. He ain’t touched a female in his whole life. A male neither. Nick’s _too good_ for shit like that.”

“I, unlike the rest of you, know what to prioritize,” Nick says, moving toward Ruth and Judy. He can’t hear them, and that doesn’t bode well for anybody. He’s not sure how he feels about Jack and Finnick getting along, either, but Finnick is smart enough to know who and what to avoid. Ruth has always been a bit of a troll, at least when it comes to Nick.

“-nighttime, really. I did a...maybe it _was_ a tiny con, I’ve never thought of it that way, but I went up to a koala and pretended I had been robbed. She gave me some money and helped me stand, and I ended up with her wallet and a nice ring. Not her wedding ring, I’m not a monster. This was before I met my mentor. I was just trying to survive. Other than that...no, most of what I do relies on stealth.”

Okay. Just talking about work. That’s safe enough.

“So where does the blackmail come in,” asks Ruth with doubt in her voice.

“Oh, that! Okay, so we were going after the same target. I got to it first, because jewel thievery is _literally_ my job, but I told him-”

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Nick says hastily.

“Aww, Nick, I’m just trying to get to know your team. I can tell your mom’s the reason you’ve been so successful,” Judy replies with an angelic smile, and yeah, bringing her here was a terrible idea.

* * *

Trying to salvage a roux is impossible when Judy has defiled it with her nonexistent kitchen skills, apparently, but she hasn’t yet gotten the memo that she ought not be within fifteen yards of an active stovetop.

“Scat,” he says irritably, waving a paw at Judy. “Shoo. Get out of here.”

She bites her lip and turns her face to the side, looking at him with droopy ears, and _dammit,_ that’s cheating. It is absolutely not fair that he can’t call her cute when she’s purposely doing it. He can only hope that Ruth won’t do anything horrible, like take an actual shine to her, or she won’t save the world, she’ll take it over.

“I just want to help,” she tells him sadly.

“You can help by not setting the kitchen on fire.”

Brightly, she says, “I’m really good at mixing. You should taste my macaroni sometime.”

“Yeah, that’s not happening. Macaroni tastes like-”

 _Poverty,_ he doesn’t say. It tastes like childhood, like the years between John Wilde’s death and Ruth’s decision to get back into hustling suckers. It tastes like arguments about school and empty promises to do better, like hauling John’s Bearnina two neighborhoods over because Ruth is crying too hard to take money from the buyers. It tastes like the last run to the grocery store when the jar is too low.

“-broken dreams,” he says instead, an over-the-top grimace making the statement into a joke. “Look, if you really want to be useful, give me information. Just stay over there out of the way and talk to me.”

She sighs and plants herself on a kitchen chair, pulling her legs up so that she’s curled up against the back. He turns back to the stove, intent on starting over with the soup, but not before he sees her rest her chin on her knees. “What do you want to know?”

“The whole plan would be nice, but I’m willing to settle for why a crime boss is after you. Is that going to fuck up our chances?”

“Oh. That.” She’s quiet for a moment. “I had a crew, a really small one, before I met Mom and Dad. Three red pandas. They were on their own too. They were the ones who taught me to pick pockets, and I kept them safe. Showed them how to build a fire, taught them what plants were safe to eat...stuff parents should do, but I guess in the city that wasn’t a priority until the walls went up. It wasn’t much, but it was _something._ Anyway, Samuel was just a cub, the other two’s younger brother. He tried to trick one of Big’s bears, Raymond, into giving over his money. He didn’t take it well and smacked Samuel so hard – and he was just _lying_ there – and he was _my ally_ and this bear had just – I got so mad. I snapped. I’ve never been that angry before or since. It was like the anger completely took over, and I shouldn’t have done it. I still had Danny and Jessie to worry about, but it was like something else was moving my body. Long story short I got in a lucky head-shot and Raymond sparked pretty bad. It left me with some broken parts, but the threat to my crew was neutralized. He never woke up. Mr. Big didn’t really take kindly to that. When Dad found me about six weeks later, I was still on the run from him, and I had sent the other two on alone so that they wouldn’t be in danger, even though that meant I had to heal from those injuries alone, which was _super_ fun. Madge was so mad at me for not following her treatment plan. I never saw them again. I’m sure they’re okay, but Samuel...he was little. He never had a chance.”

“That sucks, Carrots,” he says, but that’s the insight he needs, right? That’s why she continues Haven when it’s directly dangerous to her. It’s not just because it was her mother’s work. He’d be willing to bet that she sees Samuel in every kit she helps smuggle out of the city. He glances over his shoulder and is _not_ surprised to see her looking small. “Good thing you’ve got a team now, huh? It’ll be easier for your other kits to trust a fellow predator like me. We can try to get them out before that happens to anyone else.”

Immediately, he wants to take it back. It’s that kind of soft-hearted altruism that gets mammals hurt, maybe killed, definitely taken advantage of. But when she replies, the abject gratitude in her voice reminds him that she’s a criminal, but not like any other criminal Nick’s met. “You’ll help? You have... _no idea_ what that means to me. Thank you. I’ll find a way to repay you, I swear it.”

“You’d do it without me, and if you get in over your head, where does that leave the rest of your world-saving team,” he teases. “But that’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you kept Haven going. You don’t want anyone else to watch their kits die. You want to give them hope.”

“I mean. I barely knew Samuel or Jessie and Danny, so I’m not sure why it affected me so much other than principle. But yeah, why would I sit back and watch that happen to other mammals when I can do something about it?”

“That’s really naive, Judy.”

“Maybe so. I’m not stupid, Nick; there are plenty of things that can happen to a child who goes through an illegal system to get a new identity and placed with a family outside the city. Maybe they end up with abusers. Maybe they tell someone they were from Zootopia and they get brought back. I know Mom had a system of tracking them, but it’s not like I was even involved much in Haven until she died. I was Dad’s apprentice. I’m a really good thief. It’s what I was trained to do – what I _want_ to do. But someone had to step up when she disapp – died, and that someone had to be me. Who else would do it?”

“You have lots of potential allies, especially in Happytown,” he points out.

She snorts. “I may be childishly optimistic sometimes, but I know not to recruit mammals I don’t know. If you don’t have sufficient leverage, they’ll probably betray you.”

Nick winces at the reminder that he still thinks about selling her out, but only adds the chopped squash he lifted from behind the market yesterday. Prey-heavy parts of the city always have the best day-late stuff. Most of the time they don’t even notice it’s gone missing. They don’t even donate it; they just throw it out and forget about the increasing number of starving mammals just trying to survive. Lucky for Nick and his little family, though, day-late food usually isn’t bad for another few days. With some margarine and flour, both of which are cheap, he can make almost anything into a thicker soup. Turning to the other burner, he melts a bit of margarine in the bottom and adds onions and mushrooms, both from the same day-late dumpster. He notices Judy creep closer, but as long as she doesn’t try to “help” again, he won’t hit her paw with the spatula. She seems content to watch, anyway.

He stirs the soup a few times before adding a sprinkle of brown sugar – a luxury, but hey, they have guests – to the onions and mushrooms, making sure to keep them from sticking to the pan. Once they’re good and caramelized, Nick tips the pan into the soup pot and asks, “Can you handle taking this to the sink and rinsing it? There’s a stepstool by the broom.”

“Yeah, I can get it.” She bounces across the room to put the stool in place before taking the hot pan from him. Although it’s a bit heavy for him, she doesn’t seem to struggle with the weight of it. Then again, she spends her downtime climbing on ropes. Her arms are probably scary strong. They’re both quiet as he stirs and she rinses, until she says, “Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for trusting us. I know how it is to bring a stranger into your home, and you did it anyway. I just want you to know I don’t intend to break that trust.”

“I know,” he says, and he means it. “Will you go get everybody? Soup’s on.”

“Sure.” She drops the pan and scurries for the door. He wonders how she can have so much energy. By all rights she ought to be exhausted 24/7. “Hey, every – whoa. How long have you guys been standing there?”

Great. Not only did Finnick, Jack, and possibly Ruth get an earful of that conversation, but Finnick is going to be on him for _weeks_ for being soft to the bunny who will more likely than not ruin his life.

“Long enough to know Nick’s fucked,” Finnick says rudely. Judy ushers Finnick, Jack, and Ruth through the door, taking Ruth by the arm and guiding her to the table, and Nick realizes sourly that Finnick isn’t wrong.

* * *

The van is tense, and not just because Nick and Jack don’t get along. Judy is already running on the wires, about to head into the Leapyear compound. Finnick is on standby, ready and willing to go charging in with his baseball bat should Judy get into trouble she can’t handle. Jack is immersed in his computers. Nick…

Nick is fretting.

He’s not used to standing by and allowing someone else to do the work. They all have their own specialties, and Nick’s is sweet talk, which means that he’s _useless_ for this job. He can’t fit into the air vents. He can’t operate the van’s equipment – that’s the thing he’s _least_ qualified to do – and although he’s probably stronger than Finnick overall, he’s never been the kind of mammal who can scrap. He’s never cared enough about anything to fight for it, and he’d be more likely to get knocked out, or worse, _kill_ someone with a bat to the face, than to knock out the target.

“I’m on my way,” Judy says through their earbuds, and he looks out and up to watch her. She takes three long, swift steps and pushes off the wood of a tall pole with the butt of her staff and a dangerously strong foot. Her arc is impressive, as is her ability to do real-time calculations. He knows she’s done this before at least once, but she obviously managed it then, too. She disappears through the window and Nick turns toward the screen.

The picture streaming from Judy’s glasses is dark, but quality enough that he can make out details. She sneaks out of the room without a sound. Suddenly, there’s a skip in the picture and he has a different view of the hallway. “What…?”

“She does that when she thinks she’s heard something,” Jack tells him. “She’s probably on top of something. A door or a wardrobe or...well, I don’t go on field missions, for all I know she’s flying. I don’t care as long as she gets the job done.”

“Yeah, you’re _great_ support,” Nick wants to say, but he doesn’t. He just keeps watching. According to the angles in the picture, Judy jumps off of whatever she was standing on and continues.

“Speaking strictly of probability, according to the blueprints, your target is most likely in the south wing,” Jack says quietly. “There’s a backup generator there. I’d get yourself into the walls as soon as you can, and _may I say,_ it’s awfully convenient that this house is built exactly the way we need to get through it with minimal effort.”

“It’d be awfully convenient if you’d _can it,”_ Judy replies at a whisper so soft Nick feels a strain hearing it.

“These big compounds are more like warehouses than homes,” Finnick puts in helpfully from his place lounging against the front right tire of the van. “They gotta pack ‘em in tight without overheating ‘em. Rooms are more like cages than bedrooms, but hey, for a bunny I guess that’s normal.”

Jack goes rigid in his seat and Nick sucks in a breath. He’ll have to have a talk with the other fox. It’s not exactly common knowledge in the city, so Finnick’s throwaway comment was probably not meant to evoke anger. Surprisingly, Jack relaxes and _jokes back,_ “You know us country bumpkins, so affectionate and close-knit.”

Nick accidentally snorts. He can’t imagine Jack even tolerating a pat on the head, let alone the kind of physical closeness he’s implying. He’s not sure if the huffing noise from Judy’s comm is laughter or strain from pulling herself into a hole near the ceiling, but the picture goes significantly darker as soon as she’s in place. Jack brings up a dot on his second screen so that they can watch in real time as Judy navigates the dark space. “It’s creepy that you can see her even though she can’t see at all.”

“Pragmatic,” Jack corrects, and he seems to be in a better mood than Nick’s ever seen him in. That doesn’t bode well for the rest of their jobs. “I put a transponder under her skin, _obviously._ As long as we’re within ping range, or rather, as long as she doesn’t stray too far from my ground stations in the city, I can find out where she is.”

“And she _let_ you?”

“She didn’t cut it out when I told her about it, so yes and no.”

Nick wants to gag a little. “That’s so invasive. And unethical.”

“We are _thieves,”_ Jack says, sounding confused and maybe a little annoyed. “We invade mammals’ homes, spy on them, and illegally take things that don’t belong to us. For a living. Right this second, we have an agent in the walls about to install a hidden camera to spy on a _sick child._ And you’re put off by a reasonable safety measure?”

Nick doesn’t say it’s different when you _know them,_ because Jack isn’t wrong, but it still seems wrong anyway. Maybe the whole job is wrong. That’s why he’s stuck mostly to small-time hustles and liberation of unnecessary valuables. Things that someone will miss, but only because of the perceived importance. A stolen painting isn’t going to ruin someone’s life. A stolen identity won’t hurt a morphine addict who’s hurting his wife and probably going to die anyway.

But even though the job may be wrong, it’s also the right thing to do. Not just to expose a conspiracy, but to get justice for a little girl who’s being isolated. To get justice for the predators who die of the same condition because of their collars or mistreatment by law enforcement. When there’s a choice between doing two bad things, the worst thing is standing by doing nothing, isn’t it? That’s what he’s done so far, and all that’s gotten him is six years of what amounts to false imprisonment. And if the bunny doctor from the video is to be believed, it isn’t even _necessary_ after all.

“Got it,” Judy breathes,  and opens the grate at the top of a room with a special tool she can slip through the slats to unscrew the screws. She carefully sets it aside and, through the camera on her glasses, Nick gets his first glimpse of the savage bunny. He feels like gagging again, and he’s glad he’s already sitting or he might sway on his feet.

The restraints are obviously homemade, rags and belts keeping her strapped down. Around her head is a too-large muzzle, obviously meant to keep her from snapping her teeth. Her ear twitches toward the grate as Judy reaches over to attach the camera to the wall. There’s a sucking sound and Nick figures it’s bored itself into the wall somehow or...something, who knows with these crazies?

The glasses camera stays still for a long, long time, trained on the little bunny who is desperately straining against her restraints.

“Get out of there, Carrots,” he says, almost begging with his tone. “Whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it.”

“We can’t just leave her like this,” she replies, and her tone matches his.

“We can and we _will.”_ Jack’s tone, in contrast, brooks no argument. “Get out of there right _now,_ Hopps.”

“It’s _Cooper,”_ she snaps, and this isn’t good. She’s been galvanized into being _noble._ That’s the exact opposite of what they need right now.

The picture slides down as she, presumably, hops down from her position. She approaches the savage bunny and coos, “Hey there, Sweetie. This hurts, huh? Restraints are the worst. We’ll get you out of them, I promise.”

“Fuck,” Jack mutters, palming his forehead. “It had to be fucking _restraints.”_

“Don’t worry! Look, I’m trying to help you, okay?” Nick can tell Judy has practiced this voice before, perhaps on the kits she smuggles out via Haven. “There’s one...and the other... _and,_ here goes the muzzle – whoa! Easy!”

The little girl lunges at Judy, snarling and snapping. There’s no gratitude behind her eyes, or anything else, for that matter. It’s pure animal rage. Nick suppresses the urge to say _I told you so_ and instead says, “Get _out_ of there!”

After all, the girl may only be a bunny, but rabbit teeth are not as harmless as everyone wants to pretend. Even a little girl could do damage to Judy, and she’s already pushing through too many old injuries. Nick prefers her _not_ smelling like blood. Thankfully, Judy gets the idea and jumps or runs or _something_ to hook her paws on the bottom, pulls herself up, and replaces the grate. Nick can hear her heavy, panicked breathing through the comms.

“Camera online,” Jack says, but Nick’s not sure why that matters.

“What _was_ that,” Judy whispers.

“That was definitely a savage mammal,” Nick tells her. He watches as the dot begins to move again.

 _“That_ was – I mean, I _know,_ but…”

“Have you never seen one?”

“No. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t...that. We’ve been using the terms savage and primal interchangeably, but that’s wrong. That wasn’t primal. It was _only_ savage. This isn’t something that forces primal regression, it’s something that, I don’t know, overwrites part of the brain, or turns something off maybe. How does it last so long?”

“Maybe it doesn’t,” Finnick says. He doesn’t speak often, but when he does, he’s either mildly crass or serious. In this case it’s the latter. “Have any of you seen a savage predator that doesn’t either spark to death or disappear into one of those spook vans?”

Nobody says a word, because none need to be said. Nick leans back and closes his eyes, listening to Judy’s breath through the comms. It’s alarmingly uneven. She probably has a better exit strategy, but he can’t discount the idea that she’ll just jump out the window like a damn fool and he doesn’t want to see her splatter on the grass. He can’t get that scene out of his head, either. That little kit, _muzzled_ and _left alone_ by the mammals who are supposed to protect her…

She’s savage, he gets it. This isn’t the same at all. But he almost can’t help but envy her, because she had a thief willing to risk getting hurt just to get those horrible straps off. How would his life have turned out if a tiny Judy had happened by and helped him get that muzzle off before it made him panic? Would he still have carried that stain in him, or would he be more prone to...being good, or whatever? Is there even such a thing as good anymore?

Presently, the van door opens and Nick opens his eyes to a shaky Judy followed by sour-looking Finnick. He’s probably mad he didn’t get to hit anybody. Surprisingly – honestly, he’s rather vocal today – he says, “You go through the worst shit, Bunny.”

“No,” she says quietly. She sits in the seat farthest away from the rest of them as Jack gets into the driver’s seat. Finnick straps himself in next to Nick as Judy adds, “Bad things rarely happen to me. They happen to mammals around me, and it’s impossible to just watch it all happen and do nothing. I have means and opportunity. If I do nothing that makes me complicit in these atrocities.”

“Spoken like a _cop,”_ Finnick spits.

“Once upon a time I’d have taken that as a compliment, but I’m not unaware of the context here. I’m not a cop though, I’m a thief, which is better. In this insane world, that’s the only justice available to us.”

“Stealing shit?”

“Stealing shit,” she affirms, voice warming. He resists the urge to look back at her, instead focusing on her dot. Her brother _implanted a tracker_ and she just left it there. He’s more grateful than ever for his decision not to test their resolve. “And spying on bad guys. When we have enough information on this family, I’m going to clean them out. Let them live like I lived. Let them see just how bad it can get.”

“One problem,” Nick says warily. “Insurance.”

Jack snorts. “What insurance? It’s all digital these days.”

Oh.

Right.

Yeah, maybe he won’t double-cross the Coopers after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’d like to discover the point of this story as it goes on, you can skip this note, but otherwise, read on:
> 
> The idea of collar AU’s is fucking ridiculous. Setting aside the obvious dystopian feel, a collar that shocks you every time you feel strong emotions is not workable. Carnivores and omnivores would no longer be able to even run away if there’s a car coming. They would no longer be able to have sex, which (unless they were forcibly artificially inseminated) would result in a steep decline in the population and an increase in livestock, which would in turn decrease plant resources for strict herbivores. Panic attack? Zap. Excited for something? Zap. And once the collars come off, then what? Where’s the closure? It’s all idiotic.
> 
> So why am I writing one? Because when I see stupid, I want to poke it with a stick. It’s probably the second-worst Zootopia fanfiction idea in my estimation, and I just finished a 19-chapter dumpster fire making fun of the actual worst idea. All the problems I see in collar AU’s are going to be fixed, or mercilessly mocked. The crossover with Sly Cooper is an excuse to give Judy the skillset she needs for the only justice available to the citizens of Zootopia, even if her capabilities are currently diminished due to ever-accumulating injuries.


	8. The Children Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crew get used to each other during a productive planning session. Nick accompanies Judy on a devastating Haven run. Jack gives Nick bad news, and Nick gets a glimpse into the dark plot against predators.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back and...not completely better, but getting there. To everyone who left comments on my notice, thank you. I didn't reply, but I did appreciate.

Nick is at his best when he’s talking, so having a team who will interrupt and question him is the most valuable thing he has at his disposal when he’s planning a heist. This team is  _ not  _ ideal, unfortunately. It’s almost funny that Judy and Jack are willing to follow his lead, though. He expected at least a little resistance on the male Cooper’s part, at least, and Judy seems stubborn enough to question him on every little thing, but she seems disinclined to challenge him in this particular arena and Jack seems inclined to just follow his sister into whatever craziness she chooses.

“Look,” Nick says, annoyed, “I don’t know what your deal is, but I need input here. I don’t know all of your abilities. I don’t know if there’s something we absolutely can’t do. Hell, I don’t even fully understand what we’re  _ doing.  _ Where the hell is your  _ fire?” _

Jack looks at Judy, who is sitting unnervingly still. Her notebook is full of shortpaw notes and what looks like a half-finished sketch of a machine of some kind, with a big thick penciled circle around a belay rig, but she’s at least paying attention. She frowns and replies, “I thought we agreed you’d be in charge of planning and briefing. Nothing you’ve said sounds dangerous or unworkable with some reconnaissance. Am I missing something?”

“No,” he says, trying not to be annoyed. It’s not her fault she’s not doing what he expected her to do. “It’s hard to plan anything with no input, though.”

She blinks. “This isn’t a predetermined plan?”

“I called a planning meeting, didn’t I?”

She gives him an unreadable look with her head cocked to one side. “I guess I just expected you to do it like – like our old team used to do it. That’s my mistake. Usually I’d show up to the table, get my assignment, and perform it. It usually wasn’t wise to question the plan, since it almost always worked, and when it didn’t I could improvise well enough. Sorry. What part of your plan are you worried about?”

“It ain’t worry, Bunny,” says Finnick. 

“A plan is only as solid as its individual parts,” Nick explains, “and all I know about the two of you is the basics. Judy’s a sneak thief. Jack’s a computer expert. That isn’t enough to go on. You have to contribute or this is going to be half a plan from conception to execution, and I’m really not okay with that kind of danger.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Judy says dubiously, looking around the table at every party. Her intense stare doesn’t seem to make anyone nervous anymore, not that it would matter anyway. The lack of blinking green lights is a welcome deviation.

With the revelation that “going savage” is not any kind of biological imperative came a sort of relieved relaxation. The house is now a collar-free zone; even Finnick has accepted that nobody is in danger of going savage out of nowhere, and Nick has noticed a marked improvement in everyone’s mood over the past couple of days. It’s still hard to watch the footage of the savage bunny kit, especially the harsh way that her own family is treating her. Visions of muzzles still plague him in his sleep. But the data they’ve collected is invaluable. If the Leapyears’ doctor is to be believed, something has affected her brain on a chemical level; whatever she took, ate, or otherwise came into contact with, it’s shut down the part of her brain that deals with higher reasoning and cognitive function and heightened her fear/aggression responses. In essence, she’s savage in the traditional sense of the word  _ as well as  _ savage in the colloquial sense. 

She’s showing signs of recovery, though, which is as relieving as it is surprising. If she’s recovering without any real medical help, then maybe there’s hope for savage predators, too, assuming they’re not all dead. Nick hasn’t heard any news about predators returning after being abducted by the spook vans, but maybe…

Maybe  _ something.  _ Ugh, the Coopers are rubbing off on him.

“Look,” he says, going for lighthearted, although that tone doesn’t come naturally to him. It never has. He always sounds sleazy when he does it. “I’m not asking you to challenge everything I say. I’d rather you didn’t actually, because that would be really annoying. But when I call a planning meeting, it means we all come together to work out a plan that uses all of our skills and decreases our collective weaknesses as much as possible.”

“Then ditch the initial perimeter dig,” Jack says, pointing at Judy. “You’ve got a natural tunneler who’s a much better judge of depth and position than any kind of technology, even as good with tech as I am. Jude’s small and stealthy enough to get in, place the explosives, and get out without alerting anyone. We can remote detonate the bombs and use that diversion to get in through the upper levels.”

“And with the information you’ll have gathered with your acting, we’ll know the best place to breach and which places to avoid. It will cut down on surveillance time,” adds Judy.

“See, this is what I’m talking about,” Nick says, gesturing at them. “I wouldn’t have thought about tunneling, even though foxes used to be great diggers, because dirt is gross.”

“I’m late to the party, so  _ why  _ are we breaking into City Hall,” asks Finnick, sounding less angry and more curious. It’s nice to finally see echoes of who he used to be, even though he was pretty angry all the time before the collars too.

“A bunch of stuff in there is made of solid gold,” Judy says, at the same time that Jack explains, “We need to get Gooseberry’s official documents to verify a hypothesis.”

“What he said,” Judy says, pointing to her brother, traces of shame on her face. “Treasure is all the same to me.”

Except, Nick thinks, that’s not true. He knows for a fact that if it came down to saving a mammal she cares about and saving a priceless jewel, she’ll choose the mammal. She may not know that herself, but he’s gotten a look into her head and can extrapolate. She’s not as cold as she seems to want to be.

“Okay.” Nick taps a single claw on the table and grins at the way Judy’s ears perk up at the sound and a smile begins to bloom. Claw-tapping is a tic a lot of foxes develop, and it looks like her mother had it too. That might be useful later if she continues to be prone to spacing out like she has been for the past couple of days. “Disturbing similarities to political terrorism aside, the explosives are essential, so Jack, we need you to be on top of that. Finnick, I’m going to need  _ you  _ to be ready to crack some skulls should Judy need assistance…”

* * *

He’d thought that Jack would be involved in the most dangerous part of Judy’s life, but apparently not. With Judy behind the wheel of the van and Nick in the passenger seat wearing the dummy collar, there’s a heavy silence between them, seemingly amplified by the uncontrollable twitching of her nose. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her nervous before, but here she is, so full of tension he half thinks she’s going to explode.

“No Jack tonight,” he asks, more to break the silence than to satisfy any curiosity.

She snorts. “Jack hates kits. And he’s...squishy, and doesn’t like field work. I’m pretty sure he’s looking for a way to  _ become  _ a computer. It’s a little creepy, if I’m honest. But part of my job is to take damage so that he doesn’t have to. He needs his brain intact. Mine’s not as necessary.”

“That’s not true at all,” he retorts, but he stops and thinks for a moment. Choosing words is as important here as it is anywhere else. If nothing else, being collared made him believe that disregarding the inherent worth of a mammal is the first step into fascist ideology. Of course, he also believes that Gooseberry and her ilk are worthless, but they’ve proven that through their actions,  _ especially  _ if they’re involved in the plot against the city. “Look, you’re more than your body. It’s just as important to have a healthy mind, or you can’t think on your feet. You aren’t useful if you can’t contribute. We have Finnick for muscle. He’s good at it and he’s  _ extremely  _ hard to hit due to his size. Don’t underestimate yourself or we’re going to lose a valuable team member.”

She shoots him a small smile, turning her head without taking her eyes off the road. “You’re far too nice to me. I...thank you, Nick.”

“Don’t mention it.” He smiles back. “I’m serious.  _ Don’t.  _ I have an image to protect.”

“Of course. Your secret’s safe with me. Oh. Okay, see that flag?”

“Yes,” he replies, eyes on the blue and tan pennant flag. If he remembers correctly, the symbol in the middle is a version of the origami Judy left in the museum display case, Gooseberry’s safe, and the Hoofstadt manor. “Is that a sign?”

“Good eye. We don’t ever agree on a specific meeting place, but instead a general area. They put up the flag and I meet them.”

“Who are  _ they?” _

“We don’t know each other,” she confesses. “It’s safer that way. Nobody can snitch if we don’t know anything. Everybody wears a disguise.”

“How did this even get organized? Why would anyone stick their neck out for a cause that sounds like an urban legend?”

She shrugs and ties her domino mask around her face. It’s not enough to convince Nick, but he supposes that in the dark amongst strangers, it’s enough to hide her identity. As she tucks her ears underneath a loose cap, she tells him, “Mammals just need something to believe in. Our first clue that going savage wasn’t a disease was that kits never did. It was only adults and older teens. I think Carm –  _ Mom _ got it started that way. She used enough vaguely-medical terminology to convince parents that kits weren’t in any danger, and they wouldn’t be if they got out soon enough. I don’t know how she started it, but I know Bentley had a lot to do with the spread of information.”

“Is that the same Bentley who used to help fellow thieves anonymously get rid of their treasure?”

She nods. “That was a side job. Helped him keep track of the competition. Did you use his services?”

“Occasionally, yeah.” He gestures to the flag. “You need help?”

“You want to come with me?” Her excited chirp is so genuine it’s painful. “Yeah! I have an extra mask. Might be a little small for you, but it’s nighttime, and you’re wearing all black, which you never wear, and you could wrap your tail if you wanted-”

“I’ll take the mask,” he interjects, trying not to be amused at her enthusiasm. It’s becoming more and more obvious that she’s lonelier than she’ll ever let on. Maybe that might have been amusing when he first met her, but she reminds him a lot of himself, before the collars, before the requisite apathy. Her forced cynicism and surprise bouts of determined optimism are too familiar to be funny. She gives him her extra mask and he ties it around his head before following her out of the van.

A masked tiger is standing at attention in front of a big crate. Nick can hear tiny voices and scratching noises, and his stomach drops as he realizes how serious this is. They’re so afraid of being caught that they’re storing the kits like  _ property to be shipped,  _ and for some reason he thinks about the tracker under Judy’s skin. Dedication is a dangerous thing. He almost can’t believe he’s  _ here. _

She looks so small against the tiger, but she also looks more pleasantly surprised than he’s ever seen her when she says, “Quinn! You’re never going to fool anyone if you keep standing like a cop!”

The tiger, “Quinn,” leans forward to try to get to eye level with Judy. It’s a comical sight. “...Hopps?”

“It’s Cooper, now that I’ve been adopted by a better family,” Judy volunteers, “but yeah. Wow. It’s been years. I thought I’d have to track you down illegally if I ever wanted to see you again. How are you?”

“Better than you, going by your heartbeat. You do know you’re sick, right?”

“...Yeah.” Judy looks away. “I’m going back to the specialist next week.”

Nick’s mouth drops open a little at her blatant lie. The tiger straightens and says, “See that you do. Care to introduce me to your...uh…”

“This is my partner, but – you know, for the purposes of anonymity, I’d better not say.”

“Nick,” he says with a roll of his eyes. He doesn’t offer his paw; Quinn wouldn’t be able to shake it anyway, as large as they are.

“Good to meet you, Nick. How close  _ are  _ you, exactly? You smell similar.”

“We’re roommates,” he offers, and it’s kind of true. “Working together on a project. How do you know each other?”

“I was an officer back when things weren’t completely fucked. Judy here used to come into the station to talk to Ben – he was dispatch – and we ended up getting along. Listen, we’ve got some scared ones tonight. I don’t imagine they’re going to cross over willingly. You need any help getting them to the border?”

“We’ll be fine,” Judy says quickly. “Just help me get them into the van.”

Quinn opens the crate partially and says, “I need you to be  _ really  _ quiet, okay, cubs? Miss Judy and Mister Nick are going to take you someplace safe, but they can’t do it if you aren’t quiet.”

“I want my mama,” comes a young voice. 

“I know you do,” Judy says, approaching the crate. Her voice is soft and sweet. “Someday soon you’ll see her again, but right now I need you to be really brave, okay, Sweetheart? Be brave for your mama.”

The crate opens and six children, all predators, toddle out of it. Judy frowns. “Only six tonight?”

“The longer the collars stay on, the more mammals go savage, the less anybody thinks it’s worth sending their cubs away. This was supposed to be a temporary fix until they found a cure. Mammals are losing hope, Judy.”

“But it’s not a disease,” Judy protests, directing the kits into the van. Most of them go in obediently, but Quinn has to pick one up and put him in forcibly. While Nick shuts the door behind the sixth, Judy adds, “It’s – it’s a weapon. Someone’s  _ poisoning  _ predators, and through some accident, a bunny’s gone savage too. Please spread the word, Quinn. Don’t let them give up hope.”

The tiger’s voice cracks slightly when they ask, “It’s...not a disease? Are you  _ sure  _ about that?”

“I’d bet my life on it.” Judy  _ sounds  _ sure of herself, but Nick thinks privately that she’d probably bet her life on a Klondike bar. She’s being far too reckless.

“Anyway,” he says, redirecting the conversation, “we have to get going. Seriously, though, spread the word. We’re working on getting the information to the right mammals.”

Quinn nods and fingers the collar, whose light is blinking yellow, and Nick squashes whatever sympathy might be trying to intrude. “If you’re wrong about this, Haven is  _ ruined.  _ You know that, right?”

“I’m not wrong,” Judy replies, heading for the driver’s side door, “but you’ll be happy to know that if this backfires I’ll probably be dead anyway.”

“...Happy isn’t the word I’d use,” Quinn says, giving Nick a look he can easily interpret as  _ is she for real? _

He shrugs, waving a paw, and walks around to the passenger door.

* * *

By the time they reach what Judy calls the drop-off point, Nick’s in the back with a three-year-old cougar, an eight-year-old red panda, and a tiny silent opossum of indeterminate age clinging tightly to him. Judy was right after all; they  _ are  _ more willing to trust a fellow predator, even if they’re not the same species. Nick has never given much thought to the idea of having kits of his own, but now he’s sure he doesn’t want them. These ones are young enough that they haven’t yet learned to mind their claws, and Nick has a nasty gash where the cougar cub gnawed on his arm.  _ Now  _ he can see why Judy spends so much time at the clinic; these kinds of injuries would be devastating for her tiny body. The cougar cub is  _ already  _ taller than she is. He could kill her accidentally and not understand what happened.

Some instinctual part of Nick is terrified. His ancestors were hunted, killed, and eaten by the cub’s ancestors, and deep down his body knows it. But if Judy – a universal prey mammal, a  _ rabbit –  _ can muscle through, so can he. Mammals have evolved as much as society has. If anyone, predator  _ or  _ prey, tried to eat raw meat, they’d probably be violently sick. On the upside, modern mammals can eat all sorts of things their ancestors couldn’t. If she wanted, Judy could eat turkey, and Nick loves the grapes that would have poisoned ancient foxes. 

“Okay, I-” When she turns around in her seat after turning off the engine, her lips pull up into a smile. “Oh, Nick, I wish I had a camera right now!”

“And I’m so very glad you don’t,” he replies, deciding not to remind her that their glasses come equipped with cameras. He’s actually not sure if they can take stills or not, but video evidence of this would be worse.

“Well, we’re here. There will be a flash – never mind, see that pattern? It’s Haven code. Whoever’s in charge of this run is ready with their van on the other side. Come on.”

She hops out of the driver’s seat and Nick waits for her to open the back of the van. All of the kits are asleep against Nick. It’s a weird feeling, to be the source of comfort for someone. Usually that’s only the case if it’s part of a grift. But these children trusted him instinctively. How could they not know what kind of guy he is? How do they not feel it? He’s a criminal. He lives down to every negative stereotype about foxes, and he does it on purpose without any sort of remorse. 

Judy unfolds what appears to be a rolling cart and sets a soft pad on it. Once it’s sturdy and ready, she tells him quietly, “Help me get the little ones on here. Hopefully they won’t wake up. Wow, this is  _ so much easier  _ with two.”

He decides to take care of the cougar cub first. The other kits are smaller and lighter, so they won’t squish him if they need to overlap. He and Judy make short work of the rest of them and he helps her roll the cart down a short detachable ramp. He follows her to a cleverly-disguised hole in the fence, and when Nick follows her through it, he feels...something like free. A real collar would have shocked him had he gone outside the fence. 

He could run. He could leave everybody behind and seek asylum in another country. It’s  _ very  _ tempting. Instead, he helps Judy push the cart toward the waiting vehicle idling on the free side of the fence and wonders when he started believing in this stupid project. Ruth is right: he’s too soft-hearted. It’s going to bite him in the tail someday, he’s sure of it.

“We seek sanctuary,” Judy calls, managing to stage-whisper it somehow.

“Sanctuary granted,” a male voice replies. The back of the van is already open, and Nick helps Judy push the trolley up the ramp and into the van. She bends down to secure it and lock the wheels, effectively turning the trolley into a crib or a playpen or whatever it is kits like to nap in. She tugs on his paw to get him going again, but he spares a final glance at the sleeping kits. They might never see their parents again.

He allows Judy to lead him down the ramp, but he almost bumps into her as she stops short when the driver of the van comes into view. He’s another fox, more portly than Nick and slightly shorter, but Judy’s nose is in overdrive and her breathing is alarmingly shallow. As much as he’d like to write this off as latent speciesism – because then he’d have an excuse to ditch the operation – that would be intellectually dishonest. And maybe he doesn’t want to quit after all. He just helped rescue six kits tonight. That’s six children that might never be collared. They might never know the fear and shame and anger that Nick’s felt for the past six years.

“W-well-met, B-brother,” she stutters, and Nick narrows his eyes. He’s heard Judy stumble over her words in excitement a couple of times, but this kind of stutter is something else entirely. He can tell, not just from the situation, but from the way her shoulders go up and her ears turn, the increased twitch in her nose. He doesn’t need to be well-versed in bunny body language to know that this is personal, whatever it is.

“And you, Sister. But...is that Judy? Judy  _ Hopps?”  _ The other fox chews on air, looking at her like a novelty. It’s a curious expression that turns Nick’s stomach, though he’s not sure why. “I, uh...wow. Long time no see.”

“Yeah,” says Judy faintly, edging toward Nick. “I’ll – I’ll be darned. Gideon Grey. I have to say, I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I wasn’t either! Word in Bunnyburrow says you been dead for years. There’s all sorts a rumors about you. I like the one about you gettin’ arrested for defendin’ a fox.”

“Because Judy Hopps would never get arrested,” she asks scornfully, and at least she’s not stuttering anymore, although Nick’s not sure he likes this kind of bravado either. It reminds him of Finnick.

“Naw, because the Judy Hopps I know wouldn’t never set by while someone’s gettin’ hurt. I was a real jerk, clawin’ your face like that, but you’d never let a thing like that stop ya. You was always better’n the rest of us, and I hurt you. I'm sorry.”

_ This  _ is the mammal responsible for the scars on Judy’s cheek? The ones she explained away with an amusing anecdote about falling on a rake? Nick feels himself growling, but he can’t help it, nor can he help the way his tail goes around her legs like an entirely ineffective shield. Apparently his stupid instincts think she’s family now, which is inconvenient at best. The fox, Gideon, takes note of it and backs away slightly, paws up in the air. “Hey, now, I’m not tryin’ ta step in nothin’ here. I'm just here for delivery. Like I said, I’m real sorry. Can’t never make up for it, but it’s true.”

“I'm sorry too, Gideon,” says Judy, and although Nick can feel her shaking, her voice is steady. “I was just as bad as you were. I was nasty and condescending and I had no perspective. Does...do animals really think I'm dead?”

“S what Bonnie says whenever you come up. Stu just cries a lot.”

“What a surprise. That doesn’t sound like him at all,” she replies dryly, and it’s funny-not-funny because she seems to be gaining strength this way.

“Yer pa misses you,” Gideon tells her quietly. “It’s why he and yer ma set up the Haven station in Bunnyburrow. They knew it was what you’d do.”

_ “They  _ were the ones who stopped talking to  _ me!”  _ Judy tugs violently on her ears. It looks painful. Nick wants to grab her paws, but he’s not sure if he’s allowed to. “I tried to call! I sent texts! Nobody ever bothered to say a word! How  _ dare  _ they pretend…!”

“Uh, I think somebody’s missin’ some information and I can’t tell ya who it is. See, yer parents got that call from some lady – Bella maybe? Anyhow,  _ she  _ told ‘em you’d gotten trampled in a riot. Well, no, first Jade found a police report sayin’ you’d gotten arrested and hospitalized.  _ Then _ we got the official call sayin’ you was gone. They had a funeral and everything. Yer sister Tallulah played the goddess and I baked the pies.”

“A funeral.” She frowns and gropes for Nick’s paw. He allows her to take it, because she looks like she might blow over. “They had a funeral for me?”

“Just a little one. Lotsa yer family didn’t want ta believe you was dead.”

“Then  _ why…”  _ Her voice cracks, much like Quinn’s did earlier, but she squeezes Nick’s paw and draws herself up completely. “Thank you for telling me, Gideon. And thank you for doing pick-up. You’re doing these kits a service.”

“An’ on that note, I gotta shake a leg,” Gideon replies with an apologetic smile. “If I’m not back in Bunnyburrow by dawn yer folks’ll send out a search party. Should I – d’ya want me to tell ‘em you ain’t dead?”

“Let me think about it,” she says, and holds out her paw. “Give me your phone and I’ll give you my number. I’ll let you know if I decide I’m ready to face them again.”

Nick watches her tremble as she inputs her number and presses  _ send  _ on Gideon’s phone. She didn’t bring a phone with her, but she’ll probably have the text when they get home.

“I’m Nick,” Nick says, because he doesn’t want Gideon to see her shaking. He knows that he wouldn’t want anyone to see, if it were him.

“Nice ta meet ya, Nick. Ya already know I’m Gideon.”

They shake paws. It doesn’t feel friendly at all, even though there’s nothing aggressive about the gesture and neither fox stops smiling. Nick supposes that it’s probably just animosity on his end. He’s not usually a fan of other foxes. It’s a weird issue with what he imagines is the old instinct to have his own territory. It’s certainly nothing to do with Judy.

Probably.

Maybe.

“All right.” Judy gives Gideon’s phone back. “Message sent. I’ll make a contact for you when I get home.” 

“And I’ll get Amelia ta bring back the trolley next run,” Gideon says. “I’m just a substitute tonight.”

“You could come with her,” she says,  _ sotto voce. _

“Ya wouldn’ mind?”

“I’d like to see you again. If that’s okay.”

“Course it’s okay, Judy. I owe ya. When we was kits, I was just full of unchecked rage an’ aggression. That fight of ours was the last straw. Got some sense knocked inta me after that. You keep safe now. And take care of whatever’s bleedin’.”

“It’s just a scratch,” she says disingenuously of the large claw mark the cougar cub left on her upper back. That cut is the whole reason Nick had to get into the back of the van in the first place. “Take care. Keep the kits safe.”

“I will. Y’all be careful on the drive home. I hear weird stuff about th’ big city, an’ I don’t just mean the collars.”

Nick snorts and watches Gideon fold up the ramp, shut the van door, and get into the driver’s seat. He tries not to notice Judy shaking like a leaf as they watch Gideon’s van disappear into the distance, but it’s too hard to maintain the façade when Judy turns to him and throws her arms around his waist, outright crying against his side.

“Ah,” he says helplessly, unsure of what to do. He settles for awkwardly patting her back with a careful paw. “Um. There, there.”

“I thought they  _ hated  _ me,” she says through a sob. “I hated them for years! I th-thought they – I thought it meant I was dead to them. I didn’t think they thought I was physically dead.”

“And somehow, even fake-dead, you inspired them to do something good. You managed to live up to your dream, right? Help make the world a better place?”

He’s really bad at this, clearly, because she just sobs harder. He sighs, gives into her silent plea for a hug, and tells her sternly, “If you get snot on my sweater, you’re doing the laundry.”

She doesn’t stop crying, but she does laugh shakily, so he considers it a win.

* * *

“What,” Jack asks in what probably passes for a bunny growl, “did you do to my sister?”

Nick looks up from his notes, unable to muster up the energy to snark at Jack like he normally would. The Haven run was exhausting in a weird way. It wasn’t very physically taxing, but with all the kits and the crying, it wasn’t a picnic. Not to mention, Judy apparently thinks that a straight razor, medical glue, vodka, and a belt between the teeth are all anybody needs to care for wounds that aren’t life threatening. Nick wants to sleep, and he’d be sleeping now if he didn’t have a plan to refine.

“I didn’t do anything to her. We ran into an old acquaintance of hers. Apparently her blood family doesn’t hate her after all, and for some reason it made her cry. Don’t ask me to explain that, you’d think she’d be bouncing off the walls. But yeah, the gist is, she could have her Hopps family back if she decides she wants them and for some reason that’s not a great thing.”

“Dammit.”

Nick raises a brow. “What?”

“I’d hoped she wouldn’t find out. This is a  _ really  _ inconvenient time.”

“Wait,” Nick says slowly, feeling a scowl settle onto his face. “You knew?”

Jack shrugs. “Yeah.”

“For how long? How long have you been sitting on this information?”

“Two days, plus or minus a couple of hours.” Jack throws a stack of papers onto the kitchen table in front of Nick. “I was going to give this to you tonight anyway, since you need to know  _ why  _ we’re working so hard to get into City Hall. It’s the deciphered journal entries from Bellwether’s book. This could take down everyone if we can get evidence that the current administration is in on this thing.”

Nick’s stomach flips. This isn’t a video stream. It may not be enough for a court of law, but whatever it contains  _ could  _ be evidence against whoever is behind this insane plot against the city.  _ His  _ city. Someone wanted to destroy his city and came up with a weapon to do it. Whoever it is, Dawn Bellwether knew enough to write it down. He wonders what could scare her enough to keep it quiet.

He picks up the first page and begins to read:

 

_ Leo sometimes calls me Smellwether because he’s secretly an eleven-year-old, but he raised his paw to me today when I called him Lionfart in response. He’d had a terrible day, full of negotiations with the regressivist idiots from Deerbrooke. I understand why he’d lose control of his temper, and he didn’t touch me, but it did frighten me. Thinking about it after the fact, part of me believes that he simply paused in his habitual move to run his paw through his mane, but for the two seconds he had his paw raised in the air, I was terrified. He could kill me with a single swat. I don’t think he’s quite cognizant of that, even though he’s a smart mammal overall. I’ve helped lock up smaller mammals for similar assaults, but if I pressed the issue, who would take the Mayor’s seat? Me? I don’t have nearly enough qualifications or experience.  _

_ I start here because I’m worried about what’s happening. I’m a progressivist through and through, but I’ve been having troublesome thoughts, and I fear I’m losing sight of why I left my position to follow Leo into office. The regressivists (they like to call themselves traditionalists, but let’s face it, they’re backsliders idealizing a past that never existed) are growing more and more vocal as we prioritize equality over favoritism, and I find myself caught between dueling ideologies that both seem correct for different reasons. As a small mammal and a female, I understand better than one would think that civil rights ought to apply to all mammals, not just the ones who benefited most from the First Agreements. On the other hoof, I can’t shake the feeling I get whenever a bear walks behind me. I can’t forget the sick smell of the tuna sandwiches Gesa likes so much. I can go hoof to hindpaw with Gregory Spottson in the courtroom, but when he stands next to me outside of it, every inch of me is aware that I am prey. He has such a kind, gentle demeanor. If he were sheep-shaped, I might ask him for coffee, even if he is a public defender. But behind his soft smiles are the same teeth that used to rip into the flesh of my ancestors. One careless wave of his paw and he could gut me, and he’d feel terribly guilty about it, but I would still be dead. _

_ Is there a way to keep this city equal while protecting prey from predators? I don’t think they’re all savages, but you don’t need to be a savage to act like one. All it takes is a single bad day, like today. Leo would  _ **_never_ ** _ harm me on purpose. That doesn’t mean he can’t have an accident. _

 

_ 01/01/2009 _

_ Pawlee Gooseberry got terribly drunk and announced that she’s planning to oppose Leo in 2010. She’s one of those regressivists who believe that all predators are savages, the irony of which is almost heady, considering that she is technically a predator. Yes, a giant panda’s diet was once upon a time almost completely bamboo, but her ancestors still had fangs, even though modern pandas don’t. They even ate rodents! I have never hated a mammal as much as I hate her. She is a liar and a hypocrite and while duplicity is a given in politics, I know that given half a chance, she’d have me relegated to my family’s ranch because I’m a sheep and “sheep ought to do what they’re born to do.” According to whom, exactly? According to ancient history, what I’m born to do is mill about in a field waiting for a predator to eat me. According to my credentials, what I’m born to do is make sure degenerates get acquainted with the inside of a prison cell.  _

_ It’s all easy for her to say. Ancient history paints giant pandas as big balls of fur who ate all the time and had few natural predators, and in school we don’t even learn about the way they used to need meat protein. But I know one thing for sure: she could kill me as easily as Leo. Just lace that awful bamboo with some Midnicampum holicithias and she’d be just as dangerous as any real predator. Cousin Jamie can attest to the truth of that, or at least she could, had Cousin Emily not eaten a whole flower and beaten her to death. _

_ I’ll have to keep a careful eye on Pawlee’s campaign. She pretends to be an ally of the citizens of Zootopia, but she has some very funny ideas about who counts as a citizen and how citizenship ought to work. Should she win, I foresee mass deportation or at least strict division of labor. Leo might scare me in the abstract, but he’s better than a wild card like her. If he harmed me, he’d be rightfully prosecuted for it. Her ideals are harmful to more mammals and would probably be celebrated by the less perceptive. How can I keep our citizens safe? _

 

_ 08/29/2009 _

_ There must be safeguards in place, because Pawlee has become enormously popular and in response, predators have become much more vocal about their displeasure. Both are problematic. Leo has been bending over backwards trying to keep the small mammal vote, but it’s not working as well as either of us would like.  _

_ I keep coming back to Cousin Emily. It would solve a lot of the issues that are being caused by the traditionalists’ backslide into extreme regressivism and the opposing backlash from minority groups, but certain sacrifices would have to be made that I’m not sure I’m  _ **_willing_ ** _ to make.  _

_ Perhaps all I need to do is whisper in Pawlee’s ear in the final month of her campaign; it’s becoming obvious that she will win the election next year. I can tell her that predators are going savage. She’ll make it a talking point, because it will be too good to resist, and one of two things will happen: she’ll be called out as the fool she is, or mammals will begin to make connections where none exist. Should the second happen, prey will be more wary of their predator neighbors (a good idea in any case), and progressivist medical professionals will speak up about how there hasn’t been a savage mammal since long before the First Agreements, but if predators  _ **_are_ ** _ going savage, it’s most likely a disease of some kind. More whispers in the right ears will bring on a quarantine. It’s not ideal, but it will keep Zootopia relatively safe from her crazy ideas about citizenship until I can get enough dirt on her to keep her in check. _

 

_ 03/15/2010 _

_ Doug’s team has made magnificent progress with extraction and refinement. I hope we won’t have to use it, but I will if it comes to that. Pawlee continues to be a two-faced wretch and has warped Leo’s Mammal Inclusion idea into something nasty. She has promised voters that, should they elect her, she will find a place for all mammals of every size, and isn’t that such a delightful picture? My eyes in her inner circle tell me that behind the scenes, she’s planning to carefully dictate what mammals can do according to their species. I shall have to cash in a favor if I want Pawlee to leave sheep alone, because if all else fails, I must have my old job back. There  _ **_will_ ** _ be backlash. Probably riots, too. I need to make sure that the right mammals are put away. It’s not much, but it’s  _ **_something._ **

_ It occurs to me that this journal could very well be used against me, but I do hope that the incoherent ramblings between my entries will deter anyone from looking too closely. I need to sort out my head sometimes. _

 

_ 05/30/2010 _

_ A young student came into City Hall with an acceptance letter and a childish smile. When I hired her, I didn’t realize that Judy Hopps was a rabbit’s name, because what kind of rabbit studies criminal justice? Her application indicated that her aim was to become a police officer in Zootopia. It never even crossed my mind that she could be one of  _ **_those_ ** _ Hoppses. I assumed she was a gazelle of the same surname. _

_ I like her, though. She reminds me of myself when I was her age. Driven, idealistic, willing to break the mold. She is surprisingly plucky, too; she told off Gesa for pushing a Fennec out of the way. When informed that Gesa Klaue is the Zoo County prosecutor, Judy just shrugged and said that “right is right.” The poor dear is too naïve to navigate City Hall without a mentor, and I’m beginning to think I’ve become as jaded and negative as any other politician. Mentoring Judy might give me a reminder of what I have  _ **_always_ ** _ fought for. _

 

_ 06/20/2010 _

_ Having a rabbit on staff is something we desperately needed, and I have to wonder why nobody thought of it until now. She has tripled our workflow without even trying. Those radio antennae attached to her head have given me more information than I know what to do with, and she doesn’t even know what a gold mine she stumbled onto. When she heard Pawlee talking about cash financial incentives, she came to me immediately –  _ **_me,_ ** _ not Leo, and certainly not Gesa, which I find surprisingly pleasing – and I had to convince her that bribes are an unofficial part of politics, although I assured her that Leo and I would never entertain such an idea. Judy is trusting and impressionable, so she just accepted the lie without question. I wouldn’t have lied to my trainee at all, except I need that information for leverage. Last week, Judy came to me with five other pieces of information about Pawlee and her cohort that would be toxic, possibly even career-ruining, if the public ever got wind of them. I have recorded them in my black book. _

 

_ 07/13/2010 _

_ I will do everything in my power to make sure that Judy becomes an officer. She will be immensely useful after we have ousted Pawlee; she thinks her crush on me is a secret, but it makes her somewhat pliable, especially if carefully nurtured. What I need is a genuine supporter and confidante when all the dominoes have fallen and my plan comes to fruition, and who better to have in my pocket than a police officer? I should feel a little guilty for “unintentionally” stringing her along, but I don’t. It looks like I’ll be making a lot of moral sacrifices in the near future. Doug has perfected the formula, and our last resort plan seems to be quickly becoming plan A. Well, plan B. Plan A is, obviously, to win the election, but even with the enthusiasm of Judy and our other interns, I have given up hope. _

_ Sometimes I look at the big picture and feel anxious. Everyone is becoming so extreme. Pawlee’s supporters are loud, obnoxious, and utterly revolting. Predators are terrified and angry. Small mammals of both classes are panicking. Sometimes I think – hope – that our M.h. serum won’t be necessary; it’s likely that the reasonable predators will eventually ally themselves with the predator superiority groups out of desperation, and mammals will get hurt. Realistically, though, I can see that my vision can only be achieved with the use of the serum. Our newest precautions include a shock collar system that will be implemented as soon as predators begin going savage one way or another. _

_ Judy will be heartbroken, I think, because in the time she’s spent here she’s gone from a scared, subconsciously prejudiced country bunny to being great friends with predators and prey alike. She’s certainly struck up a suspiciously close relationship with both Benjamin Clawhauser, the voice of the ZPD, and a rookie beat cop called Quinn Fangmeyer. Heartbreak is better than death, though. Her death would be inconvenient. I’d rather not have to try to find another follower as loyal as I know Judy will be. _

 

_ 09/28/2011 _

_ First M.h. shots successful. Several mammals died, but at least we know it works. _

 

_ 05/16/2011 _

_ Because of Pawlee Gooseberry’s Mammal Inclusion Initiative, which the smart ones are informally calling the Mammal Exclusion Initiative, I almost lost Judy. She got arrested at an equality rally that I told her not to attend. She maintains that she only attacked those herbivores (a silly name, but I suppose Pawlee is much more wily than I gave her credit for, because it removes power dynamics from the equation and forces everyone to think about diet facts instead) because they were kicking a vixen whose collar was going off. I don’t doubt her story, but that doesn’t mean anything in the court of public opinion. _

_ Small mercy: I was able to get Gesa off the case, and in fact out of the courts, by insinuating that she was unfit for duty. Judy is a bunny, and Gesa is a raccoon; all I had to do was suggest that Gesa had a speciesist agenda and she was removed. I intend to ask for a summary judgment, using rabbits’ instinctual panic and her recent SSRI prescriptions as proof of unsound mind. She’ll have to be treated in an institution for a while, but she won’t spend a single night in jail. _

_ I don’t know whether she’s worth the effort anymore, after all of this acting out, but she knows too much for me to just let her go, even if she doesn’t know what she knows. I knew when I planned around her that using her was a calculated risk, but it might have backfired. I may need to revise my strategy regarding small mammals. If all else fails, I can make sure that she will never again be believed; all I need to do is bring up her “mental illness” and she’ll be the butt of jokes. Still, it’s possible that I can bring her around again. I’ll just have to keep a closer eye on her. At least I’ve taken care of her parents. They won’t talk to her anymore. The less outside influences she has, the more receptive to me she’ll be. I...actually enjoy her company. I don’t want to have to ruin her. _

 

_ 11/01/2011 _

_ I woke up to find Judy missing. I don’t know where she went, but her essentials are missing too, so I can only assume that she ran away. The clever thing took the SIM card out of her phone so that I can’t get someone to track it. Where would she go? She has no friends in Zootopia, aside from me, and there is no way she can make it out of the city while we’re still in quarantine.  _

_ She may have sought refuge with her old neighbors in Happytown, but if she’s as smart as I think she is, she won’t risk getting caught like that. My best bet is to file a missing mammals report and let the police do their job. She has no idea of the power she holds, and doing anything else might tip her off. _

_ Pawlee asked me for advice about technical legalities in her proposed legislation, which I honestly did not expect. I suppose she thinks we’re on the same side. I can work with that. It should be easy enough to misadvise her and “magically” come across inconsistencies or outright mistakes when I make my move. _

_ I never wanted power like this. It’s a dangerously public position. I was happy being the Assistant Mayor, even if I was sometimes terrified of Leo. But fear is a motivator like no other. It moves us to do things we wouldn’t do otherwise. That’s the whole point of the M.h. serum and the TAME Act. And I have come to find that I truly do like being in control.  _

 

_ 04/12/2012 _

_ The walls should be coming down within a few months, though the fences and restrictions will remain. We managed to get enough expert testimony to convince the CDC that predators “just go savage sometimes” and we no longer need a quarantine. Due to migration restrictions on collared animals, predators can’t leave Zootopia, and that will leave Pawlee unable to force out certain groups. If she does, she’ll be stuck in a city  _ **_not_ ** _ of elites, but of desperate, angry predators and relatively useless prey. I tried to explain to her when she stole the MII why large-scale segregation doesn’t work, but she thinks herself smarter than everyone around her. She’s mostly a dribbling idiot. Why was anybody stupid enough to vote for her? _

_ I believe it’s time to introduce the idea that these collars are just a tad too brutal. It will do me some good to be seen as a fair-minded animal. We can update them to measure pheromones and other chemical changes to help differentiate between an anger response and, for example, arousal or pain. It won’t be a perfect system, I know, but it isn’t intended to be. Preds need to know their place, and that means never forgetting that they  _ **_need_ ** _ to be collared. Many of them still believe their savagery is some sort of disease, and they’re right, but it’s not a disease we can cure unless we rip out their fangs and claws. We’re not the monsters, here; they’re the ones who are monstrous on a genetic level. All we can do is limit their available movements and emotions and hope it’s enough to keep us safe. Unfortunately, this means that M.h. can’t ever be phased out. Too long without an episode and animals will begin wondering whether or not the TAME system is really necessary. _

 

_ 12/31/2012 _

_ I ought to set up a lost-and-found system for dead collars and medical keys. I know very well that they will all be stolen or somehow illegally neutralized, but preds are still citizens and come election season, I want them on my side. I’m already planning to help reinstate Gesa as the Zoo County prosecutor as a gesture of goodwill once I leave, and I might even include a small predator in my staff come election season. I’ve been making appearances around Happytown, making sure to never look nervous even when I’m truly panicking on the inside. Sometimes preds actually smile at me, especially when I step between them and aggressive prey. I didn’t realize how good appreciation could feel.  _

_ Nobody appreciates just how difficult it will be to get the TAME Act passed on the federal level. We couldn’t have done it as a city ordinance without the quarantine and subsequent change in status, no matter how influential and trend-setting Zootopia is, but we really played up the disease side of things to get the quarantine approved back in 2010 and now, with our expert testimony, they are finally thinking of enforcing it for all preds in Animalia. Considering the damage done here by the M.h. serum and resulting panics, it’s not a good idea to introduce savagery in other areas, but if I can get enough specialists on my side, I expect it to be fully implemented by 2018 anyway. Are all mammals stupid, or are traditionalists just easily manipulated? Perhaps that’s the same thing. _

 

_ 08/28/2013 _

_ Someone broke into my home and stole one of my ledgers. It was the only one with records of M.h.-related transactions, so I know they knew what they were looking for. If it was anyone in Pawlee’s cohort, I’m safe; I have enough material to  _ **_bury_ ** _ her and still come out smelling like fresh fields. And I have made waves in the city; I’m well-liked enough that even the veracity of this journal would be considered suspect, should someone find it. No, my worry is that someone else stole the ledger. _

_ I have heard of a group of thieves in Zootopia who are deliberately targeting high-powered mammals. Politicians, certainly, but they’ve also stolen from emerging drug lords and a businessmammal who turned out to be corrupt. Rumor has it that they have a young bunny with them. Has Judy truly betrayed me? _

 

Nick feels  _ sick.  _

He spent six years –  _ six years –  _ assuming that there’s something wrong with him, that he’s susceptible to some kind of disease by virtue of being a predator. In his darker moments, he even questioned if perhaps they were onto something when they said it was just uncontrollable biological instinct. He was so relieved to learn that  _ all  _ mammals can go savage; the hope brought on by their surveillance and their plans keeps him afloat. But after all of that, this chaos is the design of Dawn Bellwether. He was planning on  _ voting  _ for her, too. And this is the terrifying beauty of the whole thing: as bad as Bellwether is under the surface, he can be absolutely certain that whoever the traditionalists choose to succeed Gooseberry will be  _ worse. _

He throws the book, listening to the heavy  _ thunk  _ as it hits the wall, but doesn’t feel any better about it. He can’t help the growl that comes out of his chest –  _ lies,  _ so many lies that he has to question the whole  _ world  _ now – but Jack doesn’t seem to be perturbed by it. 

“You can’t tell Judy,” the bunny says pleadingly. Nick has never seen him emote like this. It’s probably fake, but Nick finds it disturbing that Jack can be so convincing. Not that it’d take much to disturb Nick right now. “It’ll kill her.”

“I can’t  _ not,”  _ Nick retorts, irritated. Focusing on something else will make him less likely to be consumed by anger, so he focuses on the one thing they have in common: Judy. “This isn’t the kind of information that should be kept from  _ anyone  _ on our team, but  _ especially  _ her. This is her life, Jack. It’s her past and her future.”

“Her past is behind us and her future isn’t set in stone.  _ Please.  _ I know her. I know what it will do to her. She’s not strong enough to-”

“I say this reluctantly, unenthusiastically, and with great annoyance, but Judy is the strongest mammal I know.”

Jack waves his paw with a scowl. “She’s fragile. Do you have any idea what her heartbeat sounds like? Do you know how close she is to burning out?”

“Yeah, I do. I’m not an idiot. Wouldn’t you want to be told, though? Wouldn’t you rather find out from mammals you trusted and liked than through the grapevine? Look, she goes cavorting about in a mask dodging lasers, smuggling children out of this hole, and – well, if you were telling the truth the other day, having sex. That’s way worse for her heart than some bad news.”

“Did you know that a bunny can literally die of a broken heart?”

“No.” Nick bares his teeth, but it does not have the intended effect of intimidating Jack. “If she didn’t die when she thought her birth family hated her enough to shun her completely, and she didn’t die when she lost her Cooper family, what makes you think she’d die from this? From  _ closure?” _

“Fine.”

“What?”

Jack throws up his paws. “I said  _ fine.  _ But you get to tell her. Her life in your paws, Nick Wilde.”

It already is, though. Nick could order her to march to her death and she’d do it, because she has faith in his abilities. She believes in his ability to foresee and get them through obstacles. She’s good at putting it all into words – workable actions instead of a theoretical model – but it’s clear that some part of her is still too trusting, even after all this time as an unapologetic criminal. It’s a responsibility Nick still isn’t quite comfortable with. But that just means that he owes her this. Good mammals deserve honesty, and…

He believes she’s a good mammal. Regardless of her  _ severe  _ emotional problems, she’s a good mammal. Her brother has a history of devaluing her, but despite her earlier crying jag, Nick thinks she’s made of sterner stuff after all. He’s not able to be a shoulder to cry on, and he’s not particularly good at inspirational speeches or comforting sad mammals, but after risking her health and even her  _ life  _ to uncover this conspiracy and give kits a chance at lives worth living – to try to make the world a better place –  _ someone  _ ought to pay her back. Since there’s no guarantee any of them are going to make it through this alive, it might as well be him.

“The city needs to know,” Nick says, instead of trying to verbalize that. “The  _ world  _ needs to know, because I’m pretty sure our government would try to cover this up. You believe it too, or you’d have flooded the internet with this already. If we tell the world, we tell Judy anyway. Whatever heartbreak you  _ believe  _ telling her would cause, I can guarantee that lying would be ten times worse.”

“Her life in your paws,” Jack says again, but Nick has plenty of experience with passive manipulation, and he doesn’t fall for the attempted guilt trip. Jack can think of Judy as a little glass toy on his own time, but they’re a team now, and that means they have to respect each other.

“With your blessing, Your Majesty,” Nick says coldly, and there’s nothing more to say until everyone wakes up tomorrow morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you are like “This is way too fast for them to like/trust each other,” remember that Nick and Judy ended up relying on each other after knowing each other for 2 days and antagonizing each other for at least half that time. This is a time of crisis, and in fact, a darker mirror of the movie. Will their friendship last beyond this story? Well, of course, because they’re Nick and Judy. Solid AF. But in real life it would be a legitimate question.
> 
> Regarding Dawn Bellwether, I don’t believe that she was always a monster, but she certainly was one by the time she started poisoning predators. I had a hard time coming up with a reasonable progression, though, because I don’t understand what makes someone think that using bio terrorism to encourage segregation and enforce systemic racism is a great idea. It’s unconscionable and, if you want to look at it numerically, unsustainable. I don’t know if these journal entries were believable. They make her seem like less of a psychopath. But maybe we can chalk it up to her staunch belief in what she’s doing. Everybody’s a hero in their own story.


	9. The City Hall Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team pulls a job that puts all of their talents to good use. Judy reacts to Nick’s bad news. Nick gives Judy a desperately-needed order as team leader. Wonderfully bad jokes are told. Nick and the crew get their shit together, more or less.

Jack and Finnick are out in the van making adjustments to the computer bank and probably being ooky violent little mammals together, and Ruth is still asleep, so it’s just Nick and Judy alive in the house when he decides to knock on the door to the guest room and give her the deciphered journal entries. She stares at the notes in Nick’s paw, nose twitching. “What is this?”

“It’s...information about the job,” he says carefully. “Part of it is about you. Jack didn’t want to give it to you, but I think you deserve to know.”

She fiddles with the hem of her nightshirt, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She doesn’t look nervous, like she looked last night, but she does look wary. Finally, she reaches out to take the notebook, but she doesn’t open it. “It’s going to hurt me, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” he acknowledges.

“Then I’m not reading it yet. Not until after the job. I can’t afford to have distractions.”

He frowns. It’s her prerogative, but Nick doesn’t think he’d be able to handle that. It would scratch at him until the desire to know was bigger than anything else. Not knowing would be the distraction. But they’ve also had very different training. They have different approaches to life and to the job. Nick’s success depends on having all the information. Judy’s success depends on being quick, undetected, and adaptable. They know how to compartmentalize different things in different ways.

“If you’re sure,” he says with doubt in his voice.

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure about this. I’m not sure about anything.” She shrugs and beckons him into the room. He follows and watches as she bends down to shove the notebook under the bed. She seems almost unfairly limber, especially knowing what he knows about her condition. “We’re all doing the best we can with what we have. I’m glad you told me it exists. It’ll give me something to look forward to.”

“Of course you’d look forward to getting hurt,” he tries to joke, but it falls a little flat. She doesn’t seem to mind; instead, she takes his paw and pulls him down to sit next to her on the bed. “Ooh, Carrots. Sure you want me in bed with you? Mammals will talk.”

“Yeah, about talking.” She stretches his wrist, laces her fingers with his, and begins to knead his pawpad, which isn’t fair. Her thumbs are magical, and he’s probably about to be roped into a conversation he doesn’t want, but he’ll have to endure if he wants more of this amazing paw work. “I just wanted to thank you for everything you’ve done. I don’t know if I could have handled last night alone. It’s been a long time since...I mean, Jack’s my brother, and the best techie a thief could ask for, but it’s different. You’re different. You treat me like an equal. I know you probably don’t think of us as friends, but I do. I consider you my friend. And I’m worried about how today might go, and I don’t want you to go in there without knowing how much I admire you.”

“I honestly have no idea why you do,” he says plainly, closing his eyes as she presses a little more firmly into his palm. She moves up his wrist and into his lower forearm and he tries not to whine in joy.

She’s quiet for a while. After she switches to his other paw, Nick thinks she might just be done talking, but she finally tells him, “I guess I admire strength. Not...physical strength, necessarily. That’s important, and in some cases it is admirable, but it’s your brain I like. It’s the way you think. The way you talk. You’re smart, Nick. Professional and friendly admiration aside, that’s objectively a strong quality. I don’t know if I’ll make it tonight-”

“You’ll be _fine,”_ he says sternly, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation is taking.

“Nick.” She puts a paw on the side of his muzzle, and his eyes go wide. Her expression is completely open, and he has no idea what to do with it. She kneels to put them at eye level and forces him to look at her with her other paw. With her soft fingers nestling in the fur below his jaw and against the sides of his bottom lip, he feels trapped in her stare and mildly...fuzzy. “You can’t guarantee that. The plan is perfect, but I’m not. I could mess up. So please just listen, okay? If I _don’t_ make it out, please don’t let the others give up because it’s dangerous, and please don’t stop moving forward. The world needs saving, but after that’s over, you deserve to be happy. Promise me you’ll use that big, amazing brain of yours to keep yourself safe and find something that makes you happy. Even if it’s really stupid, like...moving to Bunnyburrow and settling down with some vixen named Earth or Sky or Sunshine and never stealing stuff again.”

“Okay,” he says dumbly, and then gets a grip. What is happening to him? It’s got to be the special paw treatment making his brain melty. Stupid humor. Fatalistic comedy. Rivers of blood. _Anything_ other than the way her paws make him feel soft would be _great_ to think about, Brain, thanks. “Fine, I promise to settle down with Sky Winterbottom Starshine and raise 2.5 kits and have the worst, most boring life devoid of the joy of relieving mammals of their identities and treasures if you die tonight. Alternatively, you could _not_ die, we could both get through everything that’s coming next, and life could be more interesting. What do you say, partner? Don’t you want to know what adult life is like beyond the fences?”

“...Yes,” she breathes, and he’s not sure what question she’s answering, but the drag of her eyes across his face is intense. “Once this is all over, if I do survive, I’m leaving Zootopia. I love this city, but…”

“It’s like a poison,” he finishes.

“It gets under your fur.”

“And everything is a reminder of what they’ve put us through. I don’t like walking G Street in the Meadowlands because that’s where I sparked out the first time. I don’t like Orange Avenue because that’s where Ruth had a seizure and went blind.”

“I can’t even look at Feather Bridge without feeling dizzy and sick. If I asked...would you come with me?”

“No.” He doesn’t manage the sly smile he hopes for, mostly because her expression drops into something sad. “I _will_ come with you, no asking required. There’s no getting rid of me now. How are we supposed to get the good treasures if we get in each other’s way again?”

“Nick, I…” She leans forward and presses her lips just below his right eye, humming in pleasure...before skittering back with her paws covering her mouth. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have done that, or, I should have _asked,_ that was terrible of me. I’m sorry.”

“Uh,” he says.

“Putain, je suis _méchante.”_ She leaps off the bed and turns to the side. Her rear pops when she’s wearing tight leggings, doesn’t it? Huh. He wouldn’t have expected that from someone so lean.

“Um,” he tries again, although he’d like to assure her she’s not a terrible mammal just for kissing his cheek.

“I’m gonna go...be a creep...somewhere else. Sorry. Please don’t hate me until after the job,” she says, wrapping her arms around her chest and biting her lower lip. He watches, flabbergasted, as she scurries out of the room. Her tail bounces when she’s quick, he registers somewhere inaccessible. She may not be pretty, but the way she moves is kind of beautiful.

Oh. Oh, _shit._

“Talk about distractions,” he mutters aloud, irritated. He wishes he could put _this_ in a book and hide it under the bed for later perusal.

* * *

When he walks through the front doors of City Hall like he owns the place, a few mammals stop and stare. His dummy collar blinks green below his slightly condescending smile, and although he probably looks like a joke, none of them could possibly know that the joke is on them. His crisp white shirt is pressed, starched, and bleached, and his tie – a long, thin black thing he’d never wear in real life – is fixed with a pin containing a gem Judy almost certainly stole from somewhere. He’s okay with that. He’s supposed to be the picture of snobbery and sleaze, from his oddly-combed headfur to his shiny, uncomfortable shoes. Ugh. _Why_ does anyone wear these, again? European feet must ache all the time.

“Get outta here, Pelt,” says a sheep – this one much larger than Dawn Bellwether, that piece of stinking _garbage_ – aggressively. His nametag reads “Randall.”

“Pelt,” Nick muses, uncapping his pretty black fountain pen and writing the word down in a notebook. Making sure to keep his words heavily accented, as his father’s used to be when he had a bit of drink in him, he adds, “I don’t believe I’ve heard that one before. You Zootopians are funny.”

“What are you here for,” asks the sheep, sounding far more wary, and then through gritted teeth adds, “... _sir?”_

“Oh, for copies of my papers, of course. There was a little _incident_ with some mammals involving my identification and a fire. Just a mistake, I’m sure, but my security team will not be happy to hear of this.”

“Your...security team.”

Nick pretends not to notice the skepticism. “Oh, yes, I’m visiting from Ireland to ensure the success of the merger between Woolfyre and Crookwood. John Kelley, at your service.”

Randall doesn’t take Nick’s proffered paw. Just as well; Nick would feel like wiping it off.

This identity is so solid that it would hold up in Ireland. Jack, for all his many, _many_ faults, does good work. As far as the official records show, John Kelley _is_ here to ensure the success of a merger that definitely exists digitally. Each business has a fictional history and a staff profile that Jack has been building and back-dating for months now, which is alarming for a variety of reasons. With the dummy collar around Nick’s throat and a room booked at a fancy hotel, Nick’s role as a visitor to the city can be validated physically too.

“I see,” Randall says, but Nick suspects Randall would rather _not_ see. He’s acting just like any other bigot, believing that foxes amount to nothing, even though many places in the rest of the world do not share that opinion. No mammals really like being faced with evidence that their deeply-held beliefs are wrong. Nick’s still reeling from his own paradigm shift.

“So, point me in the direction of your international identification department, and I’ll be out of your way.”

“Upstairs, to the left, through the orange door.”

“Thank you very much, Randall,” Nick says, not particularly invested in whether or not the ram picks up on the threat. Amongst thieves, names have power. You have someone’s name, you have leverage over them. He walks away, but before he’s completely out of hearing range, Nick chuckles and says to himself, _“Pelt._ Ha! What a simple-minded creature he must be.”

“Don’t get petty, Nick,” Jack warns over the comm. “We need your video stream.”

“Aye,” says Nick, mostly to be petty. Jack may do great work on the computer, but simulations and real life are not the same thing. Keeping to script doesn’t work, because mammals _know_ when you’re using a script. Nick prefers to have a general idea of what needs to be said and then improvise in the moment; that’s what happens in real conversations, and in _real_ conversations, sometimes mammals are dicks. He’s not going to cut out such a crucial part of being a businessmammal just to soothe some computer nerd’s nerves.

A good portion of communication is nonverbal: body language, nervous tics, vocal tone, and eye movement combining to give another mammal a picture not just of what you’re saying, but of who you are. Mastery of that is essential to a good con, and it’s what separates a liar from a grifter. Nick can be anyone, including some slick jerk from another country. It’s all about the small things that make up a character.

Ear flicks. Tail swishes. Behavioral tics. Stride length, speech patterns, and word choice. It’s been easier since the collars went on, because he’s had to hide his emotions for his own safety; with no sense of personality, he was just a blank slate for any character at all. It’s different now, but in a better way. Versatility and experience mix with real emotions to create an individual. A real mammal rather than a picture of one.

He’s John Kelley, Irish businessmammal, too busy for you, or her, or anyone else, for that matter. If he’s writing unknown words in a big black notebook, well, most Zootopians only speak English, so it’s...probably _whatever_ language they speak in Ireland. He’s definitely not using shortpaw and doodles to create a map of the cameras. That would be crazy.

Nick slips past the orange door with the ease of a mammal who’s done this a thousand times. A thousand may be a bit of a stretch, but he’s done it _enough_ times to be a pro. According to the floor plan Jack found using less-than-legal means, the Mayor’s office should be down this hall – and _yes,_ there it is. He walks in without knocking, and is pleasantly surprised to note that nobody is in. The Mayor tends to be a busy mammal, but this makes Nick’s job easier. He was worried he’d have to bring out some sleight of paw, which he hasn’t used in too long, but all he has to do is slide in, attach the pulse device to the underside of the desk, and get out. There are two cameras in the Mayor’s office, one cleverly hidden in the bookshelf, so he jots those down and leaves.

Now comes the hard part. His next destination is the server room, or at least, as close as he can get to it. Responsibly, they have it located in the middle of the security wing, so it’s not likely that he’ll reach it...and a fox without ID in a dummy collar is likely to get detained. Violently. This part of the operation was the reason Nick needed such a solid identity in the first place. And while he wouldn’t trust Jack with his life and safety under normal circumstances, he’s not silly enough to think that Jack would betray Judy by making this identity less solid.

He’s kicking himself inside. This job is too much risk. His usual jobs are low-risk, and maybe they’re low-reward too, but that’s easily gotten around by taking more of them. The worst part is that this is Nick’s plan. He, stupidly, decided to put himself in danger. Why, again? _Why?_ Right. Because he has a _team_ now. They’re working toward that _greater good_ shit.

Despite his nerves, Nick stays calm as he approaches the server room. The plan is solid. It’s important. He doesn’t need to make it all the way, he just needs to establish line of sight. Almost there…

“Where did he say the papers department was,” he murmurs, loud enough to draw attention but quiet enough that it looks like he was talking to himself. He reaches out to grasp the handle of the server room and is met with no resistance. What on _Earth?_ He turns the handle. Still nothing. He pushes the door inward. Alarms, loud enough to floor Judy and certainly loud enough to make Nick’s ears ring, blare. He steps back from the door and puts his paws over his ears, unable to keep his eyes from closing.

“Freeze,” a voice says over the din. Nick opens one eye to see another ram holding a tranquilizer gun.

“Not going anywhere,” he replies, reluctantly putting his paws up above his head. The alarm is godawful.

“Get down, fox,” says the ram. Into his radio, he says, “Unauthorized mammal in the server area. Male fox. No need for backup.”

Nick kneels and recites the standard as the alarms die down. “John Kelley, in town from Killarney, I’m here to pick up copies of my international ID.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” the guard says, and pulls out a scanner. If Nick were wearing the collar they issued him when the TAME Act passed, the scanner would show a serial number and Nick’s ID code, but this dummy collar is nothing more than a tangle of wires and a useless blinking light. The ram – his tag says “Adam” – hits the scanner and makes a funny sheep sound that might be a growl if it were a little more aggressive. “What’d you say your name was?”

“John Kelley, in town from-”

“Killarney, yeah, _sure._ Nice accent you got, buddy, but you look an awful lot like the sleazebag who runs around with the bat-happy fox vigilante.”

Is _that_ what mammals think Finnick is? Nick tries not to laugh. Finnick has about as much interest in vigilantism as Nick has in the history of toothbrushes. The little fox is all about the monetary payoff, except the little part of him that takes joy in taking out his anger on anyone who gets in the way of their more dangerous jobs. “I don’t know what that means; I got lost looking for your records department. My papers need to be replaced. You can escort me there if you like.”

Ever since Zootopia’s borders opened to the public and business began to rejuvenate, they’ve had to be careful with international predators. If Nick were a legitimate Irish businessmammal – and for now, that’s exactly what he _is –_ and they issued him a real collar or mistreated him the way they tend to mistreat citizens, there would be much more scrutiny. They can’t police the internet, and Nick’s read enough to know that despite a slight decline in worldwide views of predators, there’s enough negative attention on the TAME Act and the temporary quarantine that more international attention might push the Animalian government to look more carefully at what, exactly, is happening. This is fortunate for Nick, whose alternate identity is as solid as it can possibly get.

“C’mon, then, _Kelley,”_ says Dave roughly, jerking his chin. “Just so’s you don’t get _lost_ again…”

Yeah, Dave doesn’t trust Nick. It’s a weird sort of sting, because on the one paw, he’s right not to trust Nick, but on the other paw, it’s Dave’s speciesism that makes him distrustful, not Nick’s behavior. The sad reality is that someone can be prejudiced toward a single mammal based on species and be absolutely right about that mammal, even though the prejudice does not apply to the entire species. It shouldn’t fall to predators to defend their existence in the face of speciesism, and it isn’t fair that foxes like Ellen Willowheart should be viewed in the same light as foxes like Nick Wilde. Nick has seen predators so scared and desperate to fit in that they take care to act completely opposite to their species stereotypes, even if it means giving up large pieces of their culture, the only individuality they have left. The collars aren’t just a physical method of control, they’re a method of shame. Piece by piece they rob good, law-abiding predators of their identities. If the team succeeds in their overall aims and the collars come off, this will still never completely disappear. This generation’s great-grandchildren will probably feel the echoes, even if they never understand why.

He wants to grab Dave, bring him down to eye level, and _scream in his face,_ ask him how he can stand there and be so _obtuse,_ ask him how he _sleeps_ at night. But Nick is a professional, and only shrugs carelessly. “Lead the way, then.”

The accent makes him think of John Wilde, the idealistic dreamer, and Nick spares a moment to be glad his father’s dead. Modern-day Zootopia would break his heart.

* * *

Understandably, and fortunately for Nick, Judy made herself scarce this morning, so he hasn’t seen her since she ran out of the spare bedroom. She wasn’t needed on the comms during Nick’s little acting job, and her part of the job required concentration – accuracy when dealing with _explosives_ is important – so nobody but Jack was allowed to comm with her. Nick is nervous now, though, and not just because he’s going to see her after their awkward interaction and his equally awkward realization. That’s obviously a factor, but far more concerning is the safety of this next piece of the job.

He’s never minded making others do the dirty work. His reluctance makes no sense here. It’s only been a few weeks since he and Judy met in the first place. Nick’s never been the type to bond fast, but –

Well, no, that isn’t true. He does bond fast. He just hasn’t had anyone he cared to bond with in so long that he forgot how it worked. He forgot how it _felt._

“You nervous,” he asks Finnick, who’s pacing outside the van Nick’s leaned up against. They’ve been out here for thirty minutes, waiting on the Coopers to open the goddamn door so they can get this show on the road. Nick considered just breaking in, but he’s pretty sure Judy’s in there getting changed, so, _no._

“Whadda you think,” Finnick mutters, his lips pulled back into a snarl. He’s got his trusty baseball bat in paw and a twitch in his right ear, but no, Nick doesn’t think he’s nervous.

“I think you’re excited. I think you’ve been missing this part.” Finnick grins, his hacking laughter both irksome and welcome. Finnick is pretty much always some combination of that. He’s a tiny sack of rage and pain when he really lets loose, too. Which reminds Nick… “I don’t know if you heard on the comms, but they think you’re a vigilante in City Hall.”

“Yeah, and you’re the sleazebag who trails after me,” Finnick replies without missing a beat. “That makes you a junior vigilante. We oughtta get you a sticker.”

“It would look fabulous on my favorite button-up. _Theft. Ingenuity. Butt-kickery.”_

“More like butt- _kiss_ ery. I’s about to _hurl_ at the way you sucked up to get ID papers.”

“But,” Nick says, unaffected, “I got them. I’m a hustler at heart; they get what they want, I get what I want, and _ching!_ Profit. You have too much pride, _big guy._ Remember how cute you were in those elephant jammies?”

“Remember how cute _you_ were with my foot up your tailpipe?”

“I don’t remember that, why don’t you remind me?”

Finnick snorts. “You ain’t worth the effort, Kit. It’d be like taking candy from a baby.”

“Have you ever tried to do that, actually?” It’s Judy. Nick looks around for her, but he can’t find her; what shadow is she creepily lurking in now?

“Yeah, Bunny, because I’m a shit mammal with no morals. Yeesh,” says Finnick.

“You must have been the youngest, then. It’s hard. Babies hold onto their candy like – well, like I hold onto the first pearls I ever stole.”

Nick thinks he might burst as she emerges from _below_ the van, clad in form-fitting black. Her leggings cling to every muscular curve, the sturdy canvas and steel rig slung across her torso gives him absolutely obscene thoughts, and he wants to peel her cork leather gloves off her paws one finger at a time. All this, even though she’s dirty from whatever burrow she must have been digging. This is so wrong. This is the kind of thought he always thought he’d never have – always thought he was _above_ having. He doesn’t pant, but he does feel his claws prick painfully into his own palms. He shifts uncomfortably as the van door _finally_ opens to reveal Jack. They must have been communicating on a different line.

“How’s it look,” she asks in a low, sensuous voice.

“Amazing,” he blurts, at the same time Jack replies, “It looks sturdy enough, but I wish you’d let me remote winch you from the van.”

Both bunnies and Finnick give Nick about as much side-eye as he’s earned. Which is a lot.

“It’s a sleek design,” he offers meekly.

“I designed it myself,” Judy tells him with a thumb to her chest, thankfully not giving him shit over his outburst. She takes her crooked cane from Jack and spins it idly. “It’s not usually the best material for a harness, but you’d be surprised at how much easier it is to use canvas if you’re only 14 pounds.”

Cripes, is that _it?_ He’s almost six times her weight? He could snap her in half...if he could best her in a real tussle, and if he felt like doing it once he caught her. Neither of those things are very likely. “That’s...cool. What’s the hole for?”

“My body?”

Nick laughs. “No, I meant the hole under the van.”

“Oh, right! It’s a thing we sometimes do when we’re supposed to get seen. I tunnel from the opposite direction, and then when I go in, I shed a little dirt. They find my hole, they follow the furrow – I make sure to hide it poorly – and go the wrong way.”

“Okay. That’s a good distraction. Jack, switch us all to comms.”

“Done,” said Jack, tapping at his keyboard. “Jude, you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. C’mon, Finnick, follow me.”

As Judy and Finnick set off for the north side, Nick sits down on the edge of the van, legs hanging out of the sliding door. This is it: he’s leading their first real mission, here, from the van. He’s sending his team into a dangerous situation to seek out information that may not even _help_ them. He’s not even going to be there, but whatever happens next is _on him._ Why did Judy ask him to lead them? She’s surely a much better choice…

(He thinks about her still-healing wounds and changes his mind. She’d probably crash a drug-filled train or something in her zeal.)

“I’m going to need to see the feed,” he tells Jack, standing and climbing into the van. Jack moves to the side, but doesn’t look up at him. In order to look at the screen head-on, Nick has to crouch, but it’s better than looking over Jack’s shoulder. “I see one; whose camera is on?”

“Finnick,” Jack answers. “Judy won’t turn hers on until they separate.”

Nick watches the scenery from Finnick’s camera, which they attached to his hat before they left. The ear-holes make sure the beanie won’t fall off of Finnick’s head, but the placement of the pin camera means that Finnick can’t roll it down any further.

“This is nice,” says Judy. “It’s warm, the night’s clear, and we’ve got a job. You and me, Finnick. We’re about to pull the job of a lifetime.”

“Hey, Bunny, I ain’t the one about to throw my fool self headfirst into a government building to steal secrets. I’m just here to crack skulls and keep ‘em off your tail.”

“And I’m sure you’ll do a fantastic job. There’s nobody alive I’d rather have watching my back,” she replies warmly.

“If you’re going to flirt, turn off the comms,” Nick says with a roll of his eyes. Not that they can hear the gesture, but _honestly._

“Why, Nick, ya jealous,” asks Finnick.

“Desperately. How many times have you told me you’re too busy for a relationship, Finn? Now I see it’s just that you’re not into fangs. You could have told me.”

“Yeah, but I liked the attention.”

“Enough with the stand-up routine,” Jack says. “This isn’t the time.”

“Don’t listen to him, no one can hear us right now and we might all die later. This is the _perfect_ time for stand-up,” Judy shoots back. “Finnick, give it to me straight. Did Nick ever steal you an emerald?”

“Pfft. He never even stole me unpolished malachite. That fox is the least romantic guy you’ll ever meet.”

Nick wishes he could see Judy’s expression, but Finnick is looking straight forward, and Judy is either right next to him or slightly behind. He does hear her reply, “Ugh, typical. Mom used to tell me, _Cariño, never chase a male unless it’s your job to catch him. Or he’s romantic. Or both._ Show a little romance, Nick. Don’t be afraid to give him nice things.”

“I can’t believe I’m listening to this right now,” Jack despairs, and well, he’s not _wrong._

“I’m sure there will be a chance for you to get back at us,” Nick says soothingly. “Eventually. Probably. Maybe. Like a 22 percent chance. Wait, did you see that?”

“Yeah,” says Finnick warily.

“What did you see,” Judy asks. Ah. Her eyes are crap in the dark, and Finnick’s camera is pretty good at picking up stuff that regular eyes wouldn’t.

“Maybe just a shadow. Maybe a guard. Maybe nothing. Be careful,” Nick tells them both. The jocularity from before is gone. It’s unlikely that there are any guards at City Hall, at least none outside, and Jack has taken care of the outside cameras. Still, in this business, it’s never a bad idea to be on the lookout for extra threats.

“Going green,” Judy murmurs, referencing Jack’s latest toy for her. It’s a new pair of glasses; one side is a night vision lens, and the other is the monocular version of their communication glasses. In a society that invented non-insular climate control and shock collars that can differentiate between positive and negative emotions – the best and worst of mammal innovation, respectively – tiny advances in technology shouldn’t phase Nick, but they always do. Her picture appears on the second screen. It doesn’t pick up on detail in the same way that Finnick’s camera does, but Nick is sure that Judy is dealing with it just fine. “Okay, I’m leaving you here. Comm me if you catch something I don’t.”

And then –

The explosion doesn’t rock the van, because this is real life and not a shitty heist movie, but he _does_ feel the vibrations and hear the wall breaking on the east side. With their van on the west side safely away from the blast and Judy entering from the north, security will be focusing on the other side of the building; plenty of time for Nick to carefully drive the van to the southwest side, away from Judy’s tunnel. He hates driving, but Jack is needed to maintain communication and do...whatever computer things he’s supposed to do.

“So you’re a hacker,” he says casually, climbing into the driver’s seat.

“An inelegant term, but not completely inaccurate.”

Nick doesn’t roll his eyes, because he has to keep them on the road, but he does ask, “What does that entail? Like...do you have to tear holes in...fire...walls, or something?”

“Yes, it’s as simple as using the left and right analogue sticks to move and shoot,” Jack replies acidly.

There’s a quiet giggle over the comms before Judy hisses, “Don’t make jokes when I’m scaling a _building!”_

“Sorry for asking,” Nick says in the most obsequious tone he can muster. He parks the van and turns the key. “I only know what’s in the movies.”

“Then you know nothing. It’s not rapid typing and the GUI of your wettest dreams. If you’re frantic, you’re doing it wrong. And if I had a buck for every time some idiot scriptwriter used the term ‘firewall’ incorrectly…”

“Then you’d be having more appropriate wet dreams,” Nick suggests. “More flesh and less code.”

“Ow! Dang it, Nick,” Judy says. “Guys, I’m serious, don’t make jokes until I’m inside.”

“She’s right,” Nick says. He’s shaking a little, though it was easy to ignore before. Jokes always take the edge off, but the truth is, _they could all die._ He’s planned for it. There are three different places where it’s about a 50/50 chance for Judy, and if Finnick gets jumped by too many mammals, he’s toast. Nick and Jack, if discovered, will probably get shot instead of arrested. They have contingencies, of course, should one individual be compromised, and Jack has everything set to cut off and send to Honey if it comes to that. She’ll know what to do with the information she receives.

Still…

Nick would rather be joking than thinking about how Judy might fall off the building and Finnick could get his brains splattered on the pavement with his own baseball bat. He slides through the middle and looks at the screens again just as Finnick seems to lean backward slightly – most likely leaning against the wall – and Judy pulls herself through a window on the second floor. Her picture flips upside-down and slowly rights itself; she must have done some kind of acrobatic trick to minimize the impact of getting in, or...something.

Or maybe it was a glitch. He wishes he could see them both better.

“Okay, I’m in the Mayor’s office,” Judy whispers.

“Put our recorder in the ficus,” Nick tells her, putting his paw to his ear, even though their comms aren’t going to fall out. It’s a nervous habit he picked up when he still had to use the kind that had a button. “Unless it’s real. Then hide it on the bottom of the shredder.”

“How did you know there was a silk ficus in here?”

“Please, it’s an _office._ Ficuses are the most common office plant, but they’d have to tend to a real one. This is just a matter of numbers, Carrots. Probability. And...lucky guesswork.”

“You’ve got another minute before you can move on,” Jack informs her. “Try to take as many pictures as you can. You know what we’re looking for.”

Nick keeps an eye on Finnick and Judy, switching from one screen to the other periodically. Finnick moves suddenly toward a flicker and Nick sees a koala’s wide eyes before the aluminum bat makes contact with the side of his head and the eyes scrunch as a muffled cry comes out of his mouth. Ouch. Before he can remind himself that he shouldn’t care, Nick hopes the koala wasn’t just lost. Finnick is good about not killing anybody, because he doesn’t want that on his rap sheet if he ever gets caught, but even so…

Nick doesn’t like the term “acceptable casualty,” and “collateral damage” leaves a bitter taste in his mouth too, but he’s beginning to understand the need for phrases like that. It’s an impersonal way of admitting that others’ safety comes second to the mission. At least they’re not being hypocritical; they’re in just as much danger.

_Think about it later._

There’s a grunt and Finnick begins pulling the koala, who’s only half conscious, to the wall where he won’t get stepped on. The fennec sticks a dot on the koala’s tongue and stands back as he relaxes. He won’t have any lasting damage from the drug, but he’ll be immobilized and have vivid hallucinations for the next little while. Hopefully nice ones. Willowheart’s dealer was nice enough to provide something “a little extra” for Nick’s fictitious birthday party in exchange for more money than Nick, personally, had previously ever held in his own paws.

On Judy’s screen is a clear picture of a file illuminated by a pen light. She’s flipping through it much too fast, but Jack can go through the footage and get stills of each page. Nick missed what the file was, but this is, hopefully, information they can use. They’re _looking_ for evidence that Gooseberry is even tangentially involved in Bellwether’s plot, though Nick hasn’t shared the identity of the leader with anyone yet. Judy should be the first to know...and if she doesn’t look, he’ll have to tell the others without her. The job is the same whoever the leader is, anyway.

Having a former INTERPOL officer as a trainer and mentor seems to have given Judy an eye for legal patterns, which is useful in this situation, but…

“We’re on the clock,” he says to everyone.

“Got it,” she whispers, putting the file back into the drawer where she found it. She moves silently to the door and pushes it open a crack. This is the part where they have to work together, Judy from the building and Nick from the van; neither one could mess up.

Nick consults his black book carefully. “Okay, you want to turn left. There’s a camera up by the archway. It’s static, so it will see you. Stay in the shadows as much as you can; we don’t want your identity immediately verifiable.”

“On it, Boss.”

He watches as the picture moves with her. Every so often, as he guides her through the second story of the six-story building, she reaches up with her cane to nudge the cameras. The third time she does it, he asks, “What are you _doing?”_

“Causing mischief,” she whispers. “When they get their security systems back, they’ll have to manually adjust each of these.”

“You’re causing mischief for the sake of it?”

She snorts and darts forward. “You have your fun, I have mine.”

“She never used to,” Jack tells him conversationally. “She used to be all business.”

“I’ve always had a sense of humor, you just don’t know how to wear a joke.”

Nick is _definitely_ going to ask about that phrasing as soon as possible. Right after the job. But first, they need to get through this last bit. “Okay, you’ve got another three minutes and nine seconds to get in, do the swap, and get out. If you linger, you won’t just get seen, you’ll get captured. Can you do it?”

“Absolutely.”

Nick watches Finnick crack his bat across someone’s knees. If Nick’s eyes are right, that’s Randall. All vestiges of pity leave Nick immediately, and he hopes that Randall has the _worst_ trip. On Judy’s screen, Nick and Jack can see their objective inside the server room; it’s Jack’s turn to talk Judy through a piece of her job.

“Okay, Jude. You’re going to laugh, but...turn on that screen and type in capital-P-password, with an exclamation point.”

“This isn’t the time for jokes.”

“I’m serious. It’s a little silly, but is that the password you’d have guessed? No? I wouldn’t have either. Someone was horribly lazy or brilliantly funny, but either way they need to get fired. Good, now shut down the computer, just like you shut down ours at home.”

Nick’s foot taps as they wait for the computer to shut down. It doesn’t take long, but every second feels like four or five.

“Okay,” she says, moving. Nick thinks she’s unplugging the computer. “Next step.”

“Use your Philips to remove that panel...yes, now push that switch there to pop the drive, pull it – _gently!_ Pick the lock, don’t kick down the door! – good, there you go. Okay. Remove the cables and the IDE. Right, good. That one needs more of a tug. Okay, now put that into the bag I gave you.”

“...Got it,” Judy says after a few seconds. They’re cutting it close. “Now what?”

“Just slide ours into that slot. Remember, we want it to look like the job wasn’t finished, so-”

“Finnick, come back to the van,” Nick says quietly while Jack helps Judy fake a badly-planned theft. “It’s almost time to go.”

“I’m passing back security in twenty seconds,” Jack informs. Nick watches Judy pick up her backpack and cane and make her way toward the door. She puts her paw on the doorknob and waits for the sound of the alarms.

He knows that she has an earplug in one ear and an earbud in the other, but even so, Nick winces when the alarms all go off. Judy races to the end of the hall and opens the hall before waiting until she sees mammals come around the corner, at which point she hooks her rig to a spring cable they had installed a few days ago when the flag cables were being installed. The camera goes sideways and Nick watches four stories of City Hall go past _much_ faster than they should. She scrambles up, removes the cable, and sprints to the other side of the roof. Nick abandons the screens in favor of watching out the open door as Finnick climbs into the back of the van and gets into the driver’s seat. Judy _leaps_ off the roof and Nick’s breath catches…

...But of course the cables are exactly where they’re supposed to be. Judy’s light enough that none of the flags detach while she uses the crook of her cane to slide down the cable closest to the burrow she dug. Once her feet hit the ground she’s running again, and Nick holds out his paw so that she can jump and grab hold of him while Finnick drives them out.

She shuts the door behind him and rips off her rig, grinning like it’s her birthday or something. She gives Jack a high-five and squeezes Finnick’s shoulder, but things are so _quiet._ It takes a minute for Nick to realize it’s not that everything’s quiet; he just has a funny ringing in his ears.

“I can’t believe that worked,” he says to no one, putting a paw over his mouth. He feels sick. “Oh God, I can’t believe that _worked.”_

Judy elbows him playfully. “You didn’t believe in your own plan?”

“We could have _died,”_ he says. “We could have been caught, and it would have been my fault. We could have died. I’m gonna be sick!”

“Not in the van,” Finnick says, sounding more high-pitched than he should. He jerks the vehicle to the side of the road and slams on the brakes. Nick might laugh in another situation, but he’s already bolting for the door, hoping to hold it in long enough.

“Oh, Nick,” Judy says softly, rubbing his upper back as he heaves.

“I could have gotten you all killed,” he says shakily, allowing her to pet him through his shirt. He’ll have time to be ashamed of this later, if he feels like it, but he doesn’t have the energy for that now. “This isn’t some art job or stealing a pretty gemstone from upper-crust degenerates. These are mammals who will kill to keep the truth out of the public eye. I couldn’t live with myself if I-”

“Your plan was perfect,” Judy interjects sharply. “Nobody died because _you led us._ Don’t dwell on what-ifs. You’re the hero tonight, Nick. You took all these moving parts and built a weapon that has the power to _fight back._ With this information, we – you and I, _our team –_ can help make the world a better place. So sit up and celebrate with us, okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling his feet into the van. She shuts the door firmly and Finnick begins to drive again. She doesn’t stop petting him, and he doesn’t mind. “We’ll order pizza and sort through this goldmine.”

* * *

Apparently, 10 “terabytes” is a lot of data to go through, so there was no “sorting” of the information like responsible paper-based thieves would do. Instead, Jack took half the pizza home with him and left Judy to celebrate the win, death in his eyes as he passed Nick.

Whatever. He’s a buzzkill at the best of times.

Ruth nodded off about an hour ago and Finnick seems to have challenged himself to a drinking contest, so although he’s conscious, that’s not for lack of trying. Nick stands up and nods at Judy. “I’m going to head to bed. You should do the same.”

“Yeah, I...yeah,” she replies. He stretches and begins to leave the living room, but she catches his paw from behind. He looks at her in confusion as she says, “I know I don’t really have the right to ask, after this morning, but I’m about to...read that thing. And I guess I don’t want to be left on my own if it’s so bad that Jack thinks I shouldn’t know about it.”

“That makes sense,” he lies. It doesn’t. Nick has always dealt with his own demons by _not_ sharing them. By smothering them in his brain until they stop kicking. Allowing someone else to see you in a place of vulnerability is a serious expression of trust. Does she...trust him? Well, that’s dumb. Why would she do that?

...On the other paw, is it any less dumb of him to not want to disappoint her trust? They’re both idiots.

“So would you come with me? You don’t have to sit next to me or anything. Just, you know, exist in the same room for a little while.”

“Believe it or not, Carrots, I am indeed able to exist when you don’t see me,” he teases. He pulls his paw out of her grasp and pats her head with it. “Come on, I know if it were me it would be driving me nuts by now.”

She walks to her room with him and bends down again to get the notes from under her bed. She sits down in the middle of it, cross-legged, and he chooses to sit down next to her with his feet dangling over the side. He’s not _worried,_ or anything, except he kind of is, because Jack said that bunnies can die of a broken heart – and it’s not that he thinks she’ll die, but she’s a bit volatile, and she could try to jump out the window or something.

Her face falls as she reads. Nick isn’t familiar enough with her to know what she’s thinking, but it’s obvious that she’s not happy. She seems to wilt as she reads page after page, drawing into herself with drooping ears. Her shoulders scrunch and very quietly, she says, “Oh.”

“Kind of heavy,” he says, although it probably should have been phrased as a question.

“I can’t believe – I mean, I thought I was past trusting anybody. But I didn’t suspect her of anything. I thought she was the one honest politician in Zootopia. I thought we could take our findings to her. And the thing with _me?_ She was so _nice,_ I thought she…” Her voice lowers even more, so much so that he strains to pick up on her final word. _“Why?”_

“It’s called grooming, Carrots, and it happens all the time.” He reaches out to touch her shoulder, but stops short. “Someone establishes power over someone else through sweet-talk or favors or special treatment, and then uses that power to take what they want.”

She frowns, drawing her knees to her chest. “Like what you do with your marks?”

 _“No,_ not like what I do,” he retorts, but it hits close to home. He planned to betray the Coopers when he first fell in with them. He planned to use them for his own purposes and then make them regret associating with him. It’s still not the same, not _exactly –_ he didn’t target them, they chose him, and reacting to blackmail isn’t the same as _psychologically abusing an eighteen-year-old –_ but there are similarities. “I mean, maybe, in an overbroad sense, but I don’t hurt mammals in any way that counts. I act as a guide, but I never push anyone into doing something they don’t already want to do. The first rule of grifting is to choose willing marks, because the best outcome is a mark who’s grateful and might do you a favor later. Don’t overpower, overjoy. As for _stealing,_ like art and identities, you and I aren’t that much different; I only steal from mammals who won’t miss it or can afford to lose it. I steal from mammals who _deserve_ it.”

“I deserved it.” She won’t look at him. “I should have seen who Dawn _was,_ but I had stars in my eyes, and I never asked why she wasn’t _mad_ when the collars went on, I never asked why she went to bed with Pawlee, I was _stupid_ and it’s my fault that Mom and Dad-”

“It is _not_ your fault,” he says, a bit of growl in his voice.

She hides her face in the notes and he kind of feels like a jerk. Being aggressive is the opposite of helpful, but on the other paw, he’s not sure how else to relate to her. This comfort stuff is not his forte. “It _is,_ though. Maybe I couldn’t have stopped it, but I could have warned somebody. I could have been factoring her into my calculations this whole time. But I gave her a pass because out of everybody, I was so _sure_ she was the one we could trust when we found enough information. My blindness could have ruined everything.”

“You’re not the only one who was blind. I was planning on voting for her,” he admits.

“But you didn’t _know._ Nick, I _should_ have known. There were days when...I only ever told Dad this, but I left because I felt like a prisoner. I wasn’t allowed to call anybody from my old life, I wasn’t allowed to go anywhere without supervision, she even decided what I ate and when. And it all sounded so _reasonable_ at the time. I had just gotten out of the hospital. I was on antidepressants because I needed them, so when she told me I couldn’t trust my own feelings I _believed_ her. Because crazy mammals can’t trust themselves, right? I _believed_ her just because I was sick. Doesn’t that just make me even more crazy than I already was?”

Her story is as old as time, and this is exactly the response that mammals like Bellwether hope for. The problem is that Judy tries too hard to trust others, to see the good in them, to her own detriment, and it makes her a _really good_ mark. It makes her the perfect tool for anybody willing to use her. Someday she’s going to have to take a look at that, but right now probably isn’t the time to bring that up. “She used that to her advantage, that doesn’t make you-”

“So? I should have known. She said she just didn’t want me to get hurt or taken advantage of, the city was dangerous for the little guys like us, and like an _idiot_ I took what she said at face value. It _is_ my fault.”

“Don’t be so self-centered, Judy. It wasn’t about you; it was never about you, it was about her psycho plan, and it would have happened to whatever naive kit took the job, probably. Terrorists are adaptable. You were a kit. She was your friend. I’m sorry you had to learn personally that some mammals are just, I don’t know, evil. But that’s on them. It’s on Dawn Bellwether and everybody like her. It’s on the ones who think it’s okay to use fear to control others, who would rather push you around than bring you around. You didn’t deserve what she put you through, okay? Not then, not now, not ever.”

“I just don’t understand,” she says, going quiet again. “Why was she so nice to me when she was planning on hurting me? Why bother with me at all? I was nobody. Like you said, I was just a kit. Objectively I had no real value. I wasn’t politically important. I had big dreams, but there was no guarantee that I’d achieve them, even if at the time I was sure I would. I kept screwing up, too. And there really wasn’t any reason to think I had information that needed to keep secret. I can’t think of anything I knew that would hurt her. What could she possibly have to gain?”

“I can’t begin to guess, but maybe she just liked you, in her own creepy way. Provided it doesn’t get captured, a pawn can become a knight or a queen or anything else, depending on what’s necessary. You read it; the Mammal Inclusion Initiative was always supposed to be temporary. Dawn Bellwether becomes the Mayor and rescinds the protocols. The little prey mammals, like you, are grateful. You’re indebted to her. She loosens the restrictions on predators, and we’re grateful to her too, even though we shouldn’t be. It’s funny – you live without your rights for long enough and even a small relief seems like a big step. So she pretends to care about equality, and she welcomes _you_ back into the fold, her lost protégé, and you’ll do whatever she tells you to do. Especially if she pulls some strings to get you into the police academy. She...well, I’m not in your head, but I _think_ she misjudged you. You’re not stupid like you think you are, although hanging around with geniuses all the time probably didn’t do much for your perception of yourself so that’s not really your fault. I’m sure you would have seen through it eventually.”

“Hero cop and ruthless prosecutor, making the world a better place one degenerate at a time. That’s what she said to me the night we lost the election,” she tells him. “I thought she was so cool, sharing some Bunnyburrow mead with me even though I was underage. But she was already making plans.”

Cautiously, he opens his arms and asks, “Do – you want a hug?”

She leans forward and sort of _thunks_ her head against his chest, which isn’t exactly what he meant. What even is this? A chest cuddle? A head punch? “Carrots, who taught you how to hug? I regret to inform you that they had no idea what they were doing.”

“Crying makes my head hurt,” she says, laughing through her tears, “but the pressure’s nice.”

“Well,” he replies, kneading her ears despite feeling very stupid for doing it, “you’re past the point of no return. It’s three days till your next Haven run and another week before we can implement the next part of our plan. Maybe you should rest. Sleep in. Let your body heal for once.”

“What? No, I have to keep busy!”

“Right, okay.” He shrugs and continues working her ears, since it seems to calm her. “Let me rephrase. That’s actually an order from your team leader.”

“Which you only are because I asked you to be,” she grouses.

“Because you’re smart enough to know that with you as team lead, someone would probably get flushed down a giant toilet. So, again, get some rest. Your body needs it.”

“I will if you will.”

He grins and leans to the side, pulling her down with him so that they’re diagonal across the mattress. “It’s cute you think I would turn down an opportunity to nap, it really is. The only thing better than napping on a comfortable bed is napping in the sun.”

“You – don’t call me cute.”

“Good night, Carrots,” he says smugly, and pulls her in to lie along the curve of his body. This is a very bad idea. It’s the kind of bad idea that regular bad ideas won’t make eye contact with. But on the other paw…

Well, she’s really soft and warm, and so is the comforter from the foot of the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the "action" scene. I tried. My brain is a raisin.
> 
> If anyone is reading _Justice League of Zootopia_ or _Freefall,_ expect those chapters by next weekend.


	10. The Housekeeping Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are solidified. Understandings abound. There is also some dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe a big thank you to mersharr, who reminded me that the stuff I cut out of chapter 7 presented a big inconsistency. Therefore, I’ve rectified that in this chapter with some dialogue that I hope will clear it up.

_“You shut up!”_

_“No,_ you _shut up!”_

“Oh my God,” Nick mutters, rubbing sleep out of his left eye as he pads out into the living room. “What is this garbage?”

“Shh,” Judy hisses, waving a paw at him from her position on the couch next to the old radio. The sound of fighting, which is what woke him from his nice sleep, continues.

 _“What I was_ saying, _before my brother so rudely interrupted, is that children, children, children, children are the future of this city-”_

_“You say that every damn time, you stupid-”_

_“–and we all need to meet each other halfway. That’s it. Whether it’s in Savanna Central or, hey, even in Happytown, whether we’re hippos or koalas or lions, it’s important, more now than ever.”_

_“Right, bro, except that we can’t exactly meet lions halfway when they could go nuts and kill us all. It’s all well and good to say that from the safety of this booth, but you can’t expect a koala to be okay with meeting a savage predator face to face.”_

_“Don’t you read anymore? It’s not just predators going savage anymore, and it’s not biological imperative. Someone’s been drugging them. At least that’s what all the news blogs are saying.”_

_“But City Hall came out with a statement this morning that corrected all that nonsense. Preds have been hacking into those sites and spreading misinformation. There’s a whole_ movement _to get the safety collars removed.”_

_“Maybe City Hall is in on it, ever think of that? You know I’ve never trusted the government.”_

_“Yeah, well, you’re an idiot.”_

_“Hey! Shut up!”_

_“No, you shut up!”_

_“No,_ you-”

Judy turns off the weird radio show with a grin. Nick looks between her and the bed that he can still see through a crack in the door down the hallway, wondering if it’s worth trying to deal with the Cooper brand of crazy before he finishes his nap. Sighing, he realizes that he’s not going to be able to sleep until he asks. “What, exactly, was _that?”_

Judy’s not wearing her pajamas anymore, and it looks like she’s been up for a while now. Great, she’s somehow become even _sneakier._ They’ve been sharing a bed for over a week now, mostly because they both sleep better that way. It’s hard to be driven out of bed by bad memories or anxiety when there’s a warm body keeping you there, as long as that particular warm body is someone you...trust. Apparently, though, she’s found a way to leave the bed and leave him none the wiser.

“It was an independent radio show,” she tells him, pushing her upper back against the top of the chair and arching over it, presumably to stretch her back. It looks ridiculous. It probably feels amazing. “My old neighbors broadcast it once a week, but I’ve always had to look it up online until now.”

“Your old neighbors are...what, bad political commentators?”

“Activists,” she corrects. “Well, _ish._ Bucky’s the one who plays the progressivist, and his husband Pronk’s the one who plays the traditionalist. They pretend to be brothers, for an extra layer of protection. The show lets us know who’s on collection duty and who the collector should look for, but they have to dress it up a little so nobody else notices. Bucky always says his children line, but he repeats the word children as many times as there are...you know, children to pick up. Our koala has a pickup in Happytown on the Savanna Central edge, their contact is a hippopotamus, and the biggest cub is a lion...which is good information to have. They don’t always word it the same, that would be a death sentence for Haven, but they’re nutty enough that nobody pays them much mind anyway. The rest of it was part of our plan. Jack really has been systematically planting information since we started putting together the pieces, so…”

“...So the plan we came up with is, thus far, working perfectly,” he muses. “Why didn’t I know about this show, though? It seems like an important piece we should be considering. You could’ve at least said something a few days ago.”

She looks embarrassed. “I forgot to tell you. I’m so used to working with mammals who already know, it didn’t even occur to me that you didn’t. I’m sorry.”

He grits his teeth, but doesn’t say anything. He knows all too well what it’s like to try to work with others after a time of independence, but she’s _worked_ with a team before. Didn’t they teach her the value of communication?

(Jack put a transponder under her skin without asking and she expected her team leader to just give her orders. Maybe they _didn’t.)_

He sits down next to her, feeling bone tired despite the surprising amount of sleep he’s been getting lately. The best plan is only as good as its worst flaw, so even though the others are getting better about questioning him as he tosses out ideas, he’s in a constant state of doubt. He _has_ to be, at least up until their next job starts. The worst part is that Nick’s a thinker, not a leader. The outsiders they’ll need for the final stage of their project aren’t going to listen to him – not even because he’s a fox, but because he’s not good at honesty. He’s going to have to coach Judy in charming marks, but whether she can do it is the question of the hour. She’s proven to be proficient with _snottiness,_ but most mammals who aren’t Nick don’t find that particularly endearing.

“It’s not your fault. We’re coming in from different worlds,” he says, a peace offering to soothe her guilty expression. For a thief, she’s turned out to be uncommonly accountable. Most thieves would rather gnaw their own paws off than admit responsibility. It’s an important part of, you know, _not getting caught._ “Anyway, I’ve been chewing on a problem for a few days I think you can help me with.”

“What’s that?”

“Getting the attention of outsiders is going to be hard, and I’m not the right mammal to do it. This project is yours; you need to be the voice of it. You’re already the heart of it.”

She frowns slightly, cocking her head to the side. Her ears are rigid and turned toward him even though her face is turned away a little. “You want to recruit...outsiders.”

“Well, we’re thieves,” he says, wondering why this is news to her. They’ve talked about it before, albeit less concretely. “It’s not like we can come out and say we stole all this information. We need, and it pains me to say it, regular, law-abiding citizens.”

“And you want _me_ to recruit them.”

“What’s so bad about that,” he asks, genuinely curious.

Flatly, she replies, “I’m not a good salesmammal. You’re asking me to do the exact opposite of what I usually do. I don’t want to screw it up for us, not when everything has to go perfectly.”

“Sweet-talk can be taught. I can teach you. We have a little time. Here, sell me this shirt,” he suggests, pulling at the shoulder of his blue pajama shirt. He carefully doesn’t sniff it to see if it still smells like her, because that would be stupid and weird.

“It looks really good on you,” she says, false grin spreading over her face. “If you buy another, you’ll look twice as good.”

“That’s not how clothes work,” he tells her with a roll of his eyes.

“Well, why do you want me to do the selling, exactly? That’s your thing. It’s what you do.”

Nick sighs. “I’m a liar, Carrots. My specialty is _lying._ And while that’s all well and good, that’s not what we need. We need honesty here. We aren’t selling lies; we’re selling truth. We’re selling _ideals,_ even. Do you have any idea how hard it is to sell integrity to an honest mammal? We’re not selling them something they don’t have. We’re asking them to give us their safety in return for the special feeling of having done the right thing. We’re asking them for loyalty, and for that, we need real passion. They’ll listen to you. They won’t listen to me.”

“You don’t think you’re passionate enough?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Have you met me?”

“I have.” She smiles and pats his thigh softly, the tiny gesture echoing through his nerves, heat and electric thrill. Her affection is unnerving, especially now that he knows she’s being honest about it. “You’re prickly. You were hurt needlessly when you were vulnerable, and you were forced to isolate yourself emotionally. You’re your incredible mother’s son, though; you’re a survivor, just like she says she taught you to be. You don’t want to be passionate, because it _hurts,_ but you care too much to just leave the city to rot.” She leans closer, lowering her voice to nearly a whisper. “Your passion is quiet, but it’s real. Realer than mine. You can be the face of the problem; I’m just collateral damage. Nick Wilde...you deserve a chance to be comfortable and warm and seen as the stunning mammal you are.”

His heart feels like it’s racing as he takes in her words. She believes what she’s saying, or at least, she doesn’t display any of the signs of lying, and what she’s saying...hurts. It’s like sharp objects embedding themselves in his brain, or his insides, or _something,_ because she’s wrong. She _has_ to be wrong. Nick’s livelihood is being dispassionate, disconnected, disinterested. Caring about things may not exactly be a weakness, but it’s certainly exploitable. So is her faith in him.

He opens his mouth to correct her, but her expression changes to something rather more impish and she finishes, “That’s why you need another shirt like that. You look _delicious_ in it.”

“You little shit,” he says, huffing. His chest feels shaky, and he’s not sure whether it’s from amusement or that something else he hasn’t been able to name yet. “I said to sell me my shirt, not to sell me myself.”

Her eyes go wide, but she can’t hide her smile. “So does that mean you’ll buy it?”

“You’ve got a lot more work to do.” Grudgingly, though, he has to admit, “It wasn’t a bad first attempt, though, even _if_ it was heavy-pawed.”

“If this were real life,” she counters, “I’d just steal money from some rich lowlife and buy you a new one.”

 _If this were real life._ How fucked up is it that real life is a succession of crimes and wondering if he’s going to wake up with a transponder under his own skin?

* * *

“Bunny Hop isn’t viable, but I bet he’ll suggest the Bunny Hug,” Nick says smugly, prompting a scoff from his companion. She stares blankly at the studio door and makes a vague elbow gesture at him, but it doesn’t even connect.

James Clawslip is widely regarded as the best ballroom dance teacher in Zootopia, though it’s more of an open secret, seeing as he’s a fox. All but the most bigoted of prey have to acknowledge that talent does not care about species, and although he’s had to offer prey-only classes to expand his student base, he does well for himself. Nick didn’t even know of his existence until he ran a search for affordable dance instructors. Since the planned finale may require a bit of dancing if they get the timing wrong, Nick and Judy are in the waiting room, signed in under aliases, hoping to get their money’s worth from their private lesson.

(He suspects Judy will be very good at this; she is, after all, an experienced sneak thief who can dodge lasers as well as she can leap large gaps thirty feet above the street.)

When the door opens and the instructor ushers a sweet-looking otter couple into the lobby, Judy goes rigid, nose twitching and ears looking even tenser than usual. Nick can’t see anything weird about the couple, nor can he see anything weird about the instructor, a tall gray fox wearing loose but well-made clothing and a genial smile.

The smile fades into an expression of disbelief as he turns toward them and he asks, “Alice!?”

“H-hey,” Judy says, fiddling with her paws. “How have you been? I mean how are you? I mean…”

“Good. Great. I haven’t seen you at – at the club since…”

“It was kind of a one-off,” she admits.

“Not your usual scene?”

“I was only there to win a specific prize, and since I, uh...got distracted...you know. I didn’t win.”

The smile returns and James’ tone turns toward teasing. “I’m not sure whether you were lucky, or they were. That sheep was a fucking mutant or something. Just _destroyed_ everybody there. You might’ve been able to take him, if you hadn’t been sick.”

Her eyebrows go up. “You could tell?”

He points to his nose and she winces, looking at Nick peripherally. He nods at her and confirms what she must be worrying about. “Yep, foxes can often smell illness.”

(She always smells of it, stress hormones and something else that reminds him of hospitals.)

“Carrot sticks,” she mutters. “By the way, James, this is Nathan.”

James studies them both for a moment while Nick tries to put together what their history is. It looks like they know each other, but _how well_ is anybody’s guess. They could have been friends or just acquainted for one evening. Their awkwardness suggests that their parting wasn’t quite sunshine and roses, but the lack of animosity suggests that it was amicable enough. Maybe…

Did they... _date?_ Is James Judy’s _ex?_ He did call her Alice, which seems to be her favorite alias (and Nick’s, too, if he’s honest, because putting together the first name of her alias and her adoptive parents’ surname reminds him of his father). Maybe they just weren’t close enough for her to learn James’ surname. It’s none of Nick’s business, _really,_ but the idea makes him uncomfortable. Probably because James might turn out to be a loose end.

“So this is who you were thinking about,” James murmurs.

“I didn’t...I wasn’t…it’s not...”

The other fox rolls his eyes with a grin. “You’re a lucky dog, Nathan, with a tricky lady like Alice at your back. Why don’t you two come on in? You’re here to dance, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, we are,” Nick replies. It doesn’t seem that Judy’s going to say much for a while. She looks vaguely guilty.

The studio doesn’t look much different from how he pictured it. Plenty of hardwood floor space, mirrors lining the back wall, and a stereo on a shelf in the corner. James puts his paws behind his back, suddenly the picture of professionalism, and says, “Considering the rush order, I’m guessing you’re not really here to learn _dance,_ but to learn _a_ dance for a specific event.”

“That would be correct,” says Nick.

“What specifically do you want to learn?”

Nick’s about to say waltz, because MewTube makes it look relatively simple, but Judy says, “Tango.”

“What,” asks Nick.

“Tango,” she echoes. “Like my parents used to do.”

“That’s not exactly a single-session lesson,” James tells them.

She blinks. “Really? But they made it look so easy. Like they were just...talking.”

“Well, that’s more or less what dancing is.” James begins to pace and his face lights up a little. The dude _really_ loves dancing, apparently. “It’s a conversation. Like fighting, although dance is a less violent language. A good pair doesn’t need words to understand what each other wants or is going to do, so long as they both know which style they’re using. A good lead can carry a willing follow through a dance the follow doesn’t know and make it fun. A good follow can discern the limits of an inexperienced lead’s expertise and not use advanced forms of the moves the lead is suggesting. Sometimes it’s as simple as a single point of connection – the hips, or the paw – and sometimes it’s a full-body affair. Tango is a full-body affair, Alice.”

Is it just Nick, or is it getting hot in the studio? James’ words have gotten lower...sensual, almost. He’s talking about dancing, but it seems like he’s talking about sex. It shouldn’t feel obscene, but it absolutely does, and judging by Judy’s shallower breathing, she’s getting the same impression. Nick isn’t a fan of this. Isn’t it unprofessional to arouse your clients? Would it kill James to be more serious? ...What the hell? Did Nick really just have that thought? Usually he loves this kind of thing. It’s funny. Maybe he’s getting too _much_ sleep.

No. No, there’s no getting around it. He’s more aware of himself, of his body, of his secret thoughts. This is only unamusing _because_ of Judy. Because Judy’s here next to him, and has some sort of history with James, who may or may not be flirting – maybe only with her, maybe with both of them – and Nick’s never been the possessive type, exactly, but he’s always been afraid of losing the familiar. The feeling is like envy, but worse. This must be what jealousy feels like.

Step back. Jealous is just a rung below possessive. One mammal can’t _own_ another mammal. Isn’t that the whole point of what they’re doing? Getting rid of the collars means getting rid of the invisible cages that keep predators from fully living, from being full citizens. Trying to control someone else is _disgusting._ What kind of nasty hypocrite would Nick be if he continued in this vein? Whatever history Judy and James have, it’s not Nick’s place to judge or get in the way. That’s not how friendship works, and it’s _certainly_ not how...well, other kinds of affection work. He may not have much experience in that arena, but that’s something even a child could understand.

“...better off learning other styles and working your way up,” the other fox is saying, clearly having continued while Nick was spacing out and chastising himself. Nick can... _feel_ jealous all he wants, as long as he doesn’t act on it, right? Ugh, life was so much easier when he didn’t feel anything at all. It wasn’t better, but it was easier. He regulates his breathing so that the light on his collar won’t change color.

“Waltz,” he says, measured words and a deliberately easy expression.

Judy grins. “Not foxtrot?”

Nick and James roll their eyes simultaneously, and Nick breathes a little easier. He knows that joke was meant for him, to get back at him for his “Bunny Hug” comment in the lobby. What was he worried about, again? Judy wouldn’t abandon her project for some guy, no matter how well he dances. And she wouldn’t abandon Nick, either. She may be a bit flighty, but she’s not fickle.

And if Nick wants her attention, he has to ask for it. He has to address that kiss on the cheek. He has to do the brave thing and own his feelings. That’s a mess he doesn’t have time for right now, so the best thing to do is excel at waltzing and move forward with the plan.

* * *

The Henhouse only has one table that seats more than four small- to mid-sized mammals, but Honey managed to snag it so they don’t have to disrupt everything by dragging two tables together. Servers hate that. Today is unusual in that the whole gang’s together: Nick, Judy, Finnick, Honey, Jack, and even Ruth is feeling good enough to attend lunch. Sitting next to Honey is a twitchy weasel Nick thinks he recognizes from the old pre-collar days. Earl Weselton? Something like that, anyway.

“I ain’t talkin,” says the newcomer, and the grating, nasal quality of his voice brings back the details Nick forgot.

“I remember you: the Duke of Bootleg!”

Duke – for that is his name – sneers. “And you’s the lowlife who takes advantage of lemmings. I got a real job now. All legitimate-like. Whatever you want from me, I ain’t buying.”

“That makes no sense,” Jack says flatly, focusing his whole attention on Duke. It’s funnier when it’s directed at someone else. “We can’t be buying something from you _and_ selling something to you.”

Duke turns to Finnick. “This guy for real?”

“We don’t want any information,” Judy says, all sugar and fluff. It’s hardly different from her natural tone of voice, but Nick knows her well enough by now to know when she’s faking. Her hustle voice is more syrup than fruit, which, _okay,_ Nick might need more coffee because his thoughts are getting weirder by the minute. “I’ll talk. You listen. And after I’m done, you’re free to do as you please, okay?”

They practiced this for _hours,_ and thus far, Judy’s followed script exactly. Nick hopes that she can continue once Duke gets confrontational, because he will.

“I’m listening,” says the weasel suspiciously.

“The first thing you absolutely need to know is that there is no savage disease. It’s fake. Staged. Someone’s been drugging predators to make everyone think these collars are necessary, and although we haven’t found a pattern _yet,_ we don’t think it’s random. So keep that in mind while I talk, okay?”

“My girl didn’t take no drugs,” Duke snarls, making to get out of his chair, but Honey puts a firm paw on his shoulder and Nick flashes his fangs. It’s not really his style to intimidate; he much prefers more passive methods, but this is too important to try for a coaxing routine.

“Of course not. I said someone’s drugging them. It’s in certain foods, I think. We know it’s not just predators, though. A little bunny kit went savage and her doctor said it was probably something she ate. We have footage of it.”

“...And what?” Here comes the confrontational side of him. “Why you tellin’ me this, little bunny? Gonna give your condolences? Or maybe you’re gonna tell me you can bring Nadia back from the dead? HA.”

Nick doesn’t flinch, but Judy does. Death of a loved one is probably always going to be a sore spot for her. “I...I mean…”

“Don’t be such a pill,” Ruth says, waving her paw in Duke’s general direction. Her eyes, obviously non-functional, don’t quite reach him, but Nick knows how unsettling it can be to have her focus. He does not envy Duke at all. “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone. Everyone at this table has. You’re in a unique position, Mr. Weselton.”

“It’s _Weaselton.”_

“Yes, of course. My apologies.” Ruth’s tone is convincingly apologetic, but Nick knows from learning at the hem of her dress that she only ever sincerely apologized to John Wilde, and only a couple of times. Sometimes he gets a private laugh out of her name, because she’s ruth _l_ _ess._ “Mr. Weaselton, we brought you here today because we need your help. Yours, specifically. Your position is uniquely special, and we truly can’t do this without your help. Of course, if you’d rather go back to stocking shelves and pretending you aren’t _aching_ on the inside, I will make sure my children let you leave in peace.”

Duke’s never been the brightest bulb in the box. He was a decent salesmammal, back in the day, but every time Nick sent a sarcastic barb his way (usually when his stupid bootleg operation crossed over into Nick’s “overstock goods” territory), he missed the joke. Rather, he missed that he was the punchline. Ruth isn’t even _trying_ and Nick can see that she’s got Duke on the hook. Then again, she’s always looked young, and she’s always been reasonably attractive. Even when she tried to work a legitimate job – at a _library,_ of all the weirdest things, just after Nick’s father died – she never stopped grooming herself to look much more refined than she was. Half of her scams relied on mammals, usually males, focusing on her mouth without listening too much to the substance of her words.

“I ain’t anything special,” he says bashfully.

“Laverne, darling, would you please tell the gentlemammal our proposition?”

Judy smiles, seeming to take strength from Ruth’s implied confidence in her. Nick doubts Ruth actually believes in Judy; she’s certainly never believed in anyone else. But if Judy thinks it’s real, that will only help. “You work at a video rental, don’t you, Mr. Weaselton?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we have a video to send out. We’re having limited success with the internet; whatever we put up gets immediately taken down. But _physical_ copies of the video can’t be erased.”

“Okay, but what’s that gotta do with me?”

Now Judy’s smile is fixed. Nick’s having a hard time believing anyone can hear all of that and _not_ get the message. She continues, sounding even _sweeter,_ “If we give you the material, can you work your magic, make copies, and switch out the discs with, say, your top fifty rentals?”

“And put my job in danger? You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s the footage of the savage bunny,” she says bluntly. Nick groans internally. She’s going to need a lot more practice before she can go after the really important players. “We added a message at the end about the drugs. I didn’t want to bring this up, because I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but...this could be a better light for the mammals who went savage. All those innocent predators. If we can show that this is not a disease, and get enough mammals to believe in it, then maybe we have a chance at stopping the culprit.”

The truth is, spreading the videos will do almost nothing. The point is to keep the damage, as slight as it is, coming in from all sides, so that they can get away with planting something deeper. The plan will culminate in a very public display, if they can get the right mammals on their side, but until then, they need to keep the city on their toes, especially the ones in power.

“So lemme get this straight. You want me to put my job in danger, go back to my old ways, and scare the shit out of some families, all to avenge my dead girlfriend?”

“It sounds bad when you put it like that-”

“Sign me up. I’m tired of sittin’ around feelin’ like garbage cos I couldn’t do nothin’ to save her. Goin’ straight didn’t do shit to make it better. Might as well fight dirty.”

“We’ll get in touch with you when we have the full video. In the meantime, I believe you have a shift to get to,” Jack says imperiously. Nick doesn’t roll his eyes, but only because he has self-control. Honestly, that guy. If he weren’t so violently _necessary,_ Nick might actually have words with Judy about him, even if they _are_ adoptive siblings.

“How will you get in touch with me? Y’ain’t even got my number, Cottontail.”

“Number? Duke Weaselton, I have your social security number, your collar ID number, and the number of times per week you visit your dearest Nadia’s grave. We don’t need you to give us your phone number.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Jack,” Judy says, smacking his upper arm lightly. She pulls out a card folded into the shape of a raccoon head and gives it over. “Sorry, Mr. Weaselton, my brother thinks he’s funny, but he’s not. That’s my number. Text me sometime today and we’ll get in touch with you that way.”

“And you...you’re sure? These things are just...really shitty jewelry? There’s no disease?” Weaselton looks at his own lap. “Nadia died for nothin?”

Watching him is unpleasant. Nick never liked the weasel, who took no pride in his craft and made a bad name for scammers everywhere. He was always unkempt, borderline ungroomed, taking advantage of broke grandmas and young college students rather than anyone who had real money. But this isn’t that Duke. It’s a broken mammal who’s spent a few years mourning quite possibly the only mammal he ever loved, and Nick’s usual schadenfreude is absent.

“Nadia died because of bigotry and hatred,” Judy replies gently, reaching over to pat his paw. “We aim to put a stop to it.”

“I’ll text you,” he says.

The group is silent as he walks out. It’s a sober moment. Honestly, finding out that these things are unnecessary – have _always_ been unnecessary – isn’t a happy thing. They’ve all spent so much time _believing_ in this system, believing on some level that the collars are a necessary precaution against a fake disease. Being grateful that should they ever catch the disease, they won’t kill anybody. Finding out that it _is_ fake is a huge paradigm shift. Feelings of betrayal, obviously, but also in a sense a loss of identity. There are kits now who are _excited_ to get collared, to take that next step in growing up pred, and...yeah, he can see why Judy would be angry even if she’d never known a single predator. It’s not her fight, at least not the collar system, but centuries ago, it certainly would have been. Nick isn’t sure he’d have gotten involved back then, with his learned policy of someone-else’s-probleming everything that doesn’t directly affect him. It’s been a revelation to learn that it’s not just predators suffering, and that strength is relative.

The truth is, mammals don’t change. They just switch targets. He has to remember that.

“You did good, Madge,” Jack comments. “That’s the exact kind of sucker we needed.”

“That’s a mammal who’s suffering,” Honey answers, rolling her eyes.

“Exactly.”

“You…” She bares her teeth so viciously that even Nick has to suppress a flinch. Her collar blinks yellow until she breathes deeply. “Look, Jack, I get you. I do. What you go through every day _sucks,_ and I’m not unsympathetic. But you _have_ to look at mammals as living beings.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything.” Wow. He’s...actually angry, not that annoying low simmer he seems to carry like a decoration, but something explosive. “And no, Madge, you _don’t_ get it. My part here is done; I’m going to go go home. I have a video to finish.”

“Wait, Jack, you can still-”

“Stop it, _Laverne,”_ he snarls. Judy shrinks back, ears flat against her head and neck. “You think I don’t know that none of you want me around? I make you uncomfortable. And I’m just as uncomfortable with all of you. Please, just _stop.”_

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I’ll see you at home.”

As Jack briskly leaves the restaurant, Ruth looks directly at Judy and says, “You oughtta smack that boy with a rolled-up magazine.”

Nick rolls his eyes, because that’s never been her parenting policy. If Nick had thrown a tantrum as a kit, she’d have sent him out and told him not to come back without $50. She’s always been staunchly anti-physical punishment, because she believes it only teaches that physical violence is a good solution to problems that are too small for it.

_(“Remember, Nicholas, you’re small; you should only be violent when your tongue fails. And even then, try to run away before you try to fight. Else you might not survive.”)_

“I’m too indulgent with him, I know,” Judy says quietly. “I just...can’t help but see him as he was when I met him.”

“Part of the problem is that you won’t let him move on,” Honey tells her. “He can’t depend on you forever.”

“What’s his damage, anyway,” asks Finnick.

“He has prosopagnosia. Face blindness. He likes computers because it’s all data, I guess. It’s all recognizable and when you communicate with new contacts, it’s not the same as meeting someone face-to-face. You’d be surprised at how much communication happens that he can’t process. When we met, he relied on me a little to help him learn our professors’ scents, their most common outfit styles, that sort of thing. The ones who had distinctive voices were easier for him to remember. He wasn’t always so mean. When we met, he was sweet. It’s just that all of this _garbage_ with the MII and TAME made us all get tough or get hurt, and his version of getting tough was to cut out most other mammals entirely.”

“Well, that’s really not a very good excuse,” Ruth counters, summing up Nick’s thoughts on the matter. Everyone has their own shit to deal with. In project like this, there isn’t much room to allow personal issues to interfere with group dynamics.

“It’s not. I know it’s not. You know, I keep thinking I’m going to see him again – the sweet kit who fell in love with an upperclassmammal and bought her edible bouquets and wrote a whole app just for her that generated positive little messages...or tried to, anyway, it was pretty flawed, but he was _so_ proud of it. But I think there comes a time when you just have to accept that the mammal you loved isn’t there anymore. My brother is different now. He’s the biggest jerk I’ve ever met. Fixing the system isn’t going to fix him. It’s not going to fix me, either, or any of us. I’ll have a talk with him. It probably won’t do anything, but…”

There’s a beat of uncomfortable silence before Nick says, “You did pretty well with Duke, at any rate.”

“Thanks. That was all you though. I just asked myself what you would say, and said that.” She turns her attention to Honey. “Dr. Honey, I’ve been thinking...I know you were studying infectious diseases, but if I got you a sample of the toxin, do you think you could figure out how they’ve weaponized it?”

“Probably not. I’ve forgotten a lot about medicine, aside from trauma procedures, and it’s like you said: I studied diseases, not drugs. But give me a bit of time to get in touch with some old contacts. One of my schoolmates was pretty into toxicology. He might be willing to help. Although, he was a sheep, so maybe we’re better off avoiding him…”

“Just do a thorough vetting before you reach out,” Nick suggests. At her flat glare, he adds, “Not that you wouldn’t. I’m just dotting my I’s and crossing my T’s here.”

“Yeah, yeah. Any suggestions on how you’re gonna actually _get_ it to me?”

Judy takes a deep breath. “My...my birth parents. The Hoppses. The toxin comes from a flower they used – or maybe they still use it – around their property as pest control. They always told us to avoid it, and I thought it was just because they would make us sick. But if our notes are correct, and I can’t imagine they _aren’t,_ then the toxin causes aggression and some kind of shutdown of whatever part of the brain deals with higher reasoning. If you could figure out how they managed to extend and intensify its effects, maybe we could...I don’t know. I just can’t stand the idea of one more mammal going savage and getting hurt, or kitnapped, or dying because of someone’s stupid political agenda.”

Nick studies her. She is obviously trying to look confident, but he knows her tells. She is most definitely twitchier than usual. “You’re going to be okay seeing them again?”

“Does it matter? It’s necessary. I’ve been texting with Gideon, and I think he can get them to come out with him next time he does a Haven run. And, Ruth...I have a favor to ask. You can say no, it’s _really_ a huge favor, I just think – I don’t know if we can trust them. Maybe they had the wrong information. I’d love for that to be the case. But I was hoping you would...um...go with them. To Bunnyburrow.”

“Whoa, hang on,” Finnick says angrily, but Nick can see where Judy’s coming from. Not only would it serve them well to have a nose and ears away from the city, but Ruth is only useful in what strategy she might come up with. Nick would feel better with her safe somewhere. In her heyday, she could take care of herself, but the blindness and neurological problems caused by her big spark took that from her. In Bunnyburrow, not only will she be uncollared, but she’ll be surrounded by mammals who give a shit, in theory. And if not...they’ll have confirmation.

“Hush, Finnick, it’s a good strategy,” Ruth says, a rather sharp grin spreading across her muzzle. “I’m useless to your operation, and you know that. But I’m not so useless as a spy. Judy’s little fox friend will keep me safe from the scary bunnies.”

“I don’t know why I keep forgettin’ you’re your mother’s son,” Finnick grouses, making a rude gesture at Nick. Nick’s not sure why _he_ forgets sometimes. His mind doesn’t work exactly the same way hers does, but she taught him how to look, how to process, how to strategize. Their sarcastic jibes would sound natural coming out of each other’s mouths. John was always the heart of the family, but Ruth was the head, and...it looks like in the end, Nick turned out more like her than he ever wanted to.

Maybe it’s _not_ a bad thing. It’s never been her fault that John died, and it’s not her fault that she did what she had to do to give him some semblance of a life. Nick held that little ball of resentment inside of him for so long he forgot what it was like to love her, but perspective has made him realize that mammals’ choices make them who they are. Nick reacted to what he perceived as heartlessness. Ruth just wanted to keep him alive. Something in him eases, something he didn’t even know was tense.

“I’ll tell Gideon to bring my parents,” Judy says, “and we’ll get you your sample. Do you think you can track down some reliable associates within three days, Dr. Honey?”

“Hell, with three days I can get you an army of angry ex-scientists and doctors. All predators, probably, but nobody here cares about that.”

“Then we’re all in agreement?”

Nick can feel himself smiling as the entire table gives assent. It’s funny; he always thought that relying on others was a weakness. Having attachments would only get him hurt. It’s not like that after all, though. Before he met Judy, he was a small-time grifter who sometimes stole paintings and never felt much of anything. Now, he has a family he cares about, and together – if everything works out right – they’re going to save the world.

* * *

Everyone should be asleep now, but Nick can’t sleep, so he’s reviewing the finished video of the savage bunny kit and their message. The last little while has been _wild,_ and with so much going on at once, he hasn’t had much time to process new information. This, as disturbing as it is to watch a child turn into a slavering monster, is at least something he knows he can handle. It’s old news.

“Come hold her down,” says a white rabbit, looking resigned. Three adult bunnies do as he says, two of them taking one leg each and the other holding the kit’s head still. It looks barbaric, the kind of thing you might find in a horror flick about old-school mental hospitals. The bunny in charge pulls the muzzle off her and begins force-feeding her soft foods with silicone cutlery. They chose this particular scene precisely because it is so disturbing; this is a _child,_ and they’re treating her like a monster. Emotional impact is powerful. In the end, logical arguments are all well and good, but what wins the day is appeal to emotion.

The kit, obviously ravenous, soon settles a little as she realizes that the stuff going into her mouth is nourishment. As the white rabbit removes the spoon, she tries to follow it with her mouth, but she can’t move. Her little snarl and the jerking kick of her legs would be adorable, were it not for the situation. The white rabbit brings out a syringe and the kit begins to flail, and then she shouts, “Nuh!”

“Did she just...talk,” asks one of the bunnies holding her legs.

“Maybe. It’s been a few weeks,” replies the one holding her head. The white one injects her with something and waits, stone-faced, as she begins to relax. The sedative is a constant theme in the feed of the kit, and it kind of hurts to watch every time. This is their own blood, and they’re keeping her isolated and drugged. She belongs in a hospital.

The white rabbit replaces the muzzle and gestures for everyone to let go. He quickly strips off her underwear and begins cleaning her with sanitary wipes, as expressionless as he always is. Once he’s finished, and she has a clean pair of undies on, he addresses the others. “She didn’t speak, if Patrice asks. We don’t know what that was. It’s stupid to give her false hope.”

One of the bunnies shifts uncomfortably. “But-”

“There is _no change_ in her condition until I tell you otherwise. Understand? We don’t need undue stress right now, not with her latest pregnancy and the political nightmare going on.”

“How did this even get _out?”_

“I have no idea,” the white rabbit says grimly, “but when I find out, I assure you, whoever leaked our little shame will be punished by any means necessary.”

The feed cuts out and Judy’s voice comes on. It’s a very deliberate choice, although it’s risky; if they’ve read Dawn Bellwether right, she’ll recognize Judy’s voice and know exactly who’s coming for her.

“It’s not just predators going savage,” she informs the viewers of the video, “because it was never a disease. This condition is caused by a toxic flower, Midnicampum holicithias, and it’s being administered in a concentrated form by one of our own local heroes, Dawn Bellwether. We suspect there are co-conspirators at City Hall. If we don’t act now, it might not be a harmless little kit who’s poisoned next. Whoever you are, it could be _you._ Keep yourselves safe, and call the number on your screen if you know anything about this flower.”

The video ends with a graphic of Judy’s card, the one she presumably inherited from her adoptive family. It only flashes on the screen for a moment, and even a steady eye might not see it for what it is. But it’s enough to embed the image in someone’s subconscious.

“Jack set up a phone network like scammers use,” she says quietly from behind him. When he turns, his mouth goes dry. Her nightshirt – well, it’s just one of his shirts, a nice deep blue one that’s slightly too small for him now that he’s not a skinny teenager – just barely comes down to the tops of her thighs, and she’s foregone her leggings in favor of some short shorts. The weather systems are on the fritz again, and the heat is unbearable. Nick shed his shirt some time ago, but he thought he was the only one awake. “I don’t really know how it works, but that number routes through whatever system or network or...however he managed it, and we’ll be getting calls on his computer. If anyone calls. I want to believe that we’ll get calls, but...I have this feeling, like everything’s going to fall apart.”

“You’re not the only one.” He raises an eyebrow and turns in his spinning chair to fully face her. “Why aren’t you asleep?”

“Guess I got used to you sleeping next to me,” she replies. “Also, bunny ears. I heard you playing that video. It’s – I didn’t think I could ever be that scared.”

He watches her move into the living room, examining the trinkets and photos Ruth put up before she went blind. There’s no hole for her tail, so it pushes against the fabric as she moves. That can’t be comfortable. Nick’s not very comfortable either. But through his admiration of her form, his mind stalls on something she said. “You said you’d never seen a savage mammal. But a while back you told me you and your mother saw a savage ocelot.”

“Right. When we first started looking into it, we were operating under a set of assumptions, and we were using the terms “primal” and “savage” interchangeably.”

“You said that.”

She nods. “The ocelot we saw wasn’t mindless like that kit. We both got bitten, but he was acting primal – like he was one of his ancient ancestors, not on a violent tear for no reason. He snarled at us, but he was reluctant to attack us until we tried getting past him. We were, I think, trespassing, at least in his mind. You see it sometimes when you live on the streets. Get to a certain point, and mammals will follow their instincts. Our ancestors knew how to keep themselves alive without all this technology and convenience. We were assuming that there was a bio-weapon that was forcing a primal regression, but that’s not what this is. It’s not any mammal’s instinct to attack indiscriminately even when there’s no threat. That kit would have tried to attack _you,_ even though there’s surely some part of her brain that would register you as a threat.”

“This is all so crazy,” he says, feeling very tired. He looks away from her so he won’t get stuck staring at her like a total creep. “It doesn’t feel like real life. And I keep going back to Dawn Bellwether. I liked her. I was seriously going to vote for her. But Partridge 2.0 is going to be just as intolerable. I don’t like feeling like the whole country is depending on us. Why is this our job? Why is this even _happening?_ The more I think about it, the less it makes sense. What does she have to gain? What would anyone have to gain? Is she just a sadist who wants to see us suffer?”

“She was always really big on unity,” she explains, coming closer. Nick looks up and swallows as she steps between his knees. “She thought, and _still_ probably thinks, that Zootopia could be great if we could all get on the same page. Work together. I don’t know if she really understands the difference between unity and uniformity, but I know that I didn’t, when I was interning under her. And I think she believes that if _she_ can get into power, then she can make us into her special united city. None of that excuses what she’s done, but that’s the only reason I can think of to hurt and control so many mammals. We always disagreed on one point, though.”

“And what’s that?”

“She wanted to make Zootopia a great city. I thought that it was great already. It had its flaws, some _really major_ ones, but it was beautiful and diverse and I felt more at home here during those few months of freedom than I ever had in Bunnyburrow.” She holds out her paw. “Come dance with me, Nick.”

The old Nick Wilde would laugh, say something sarcastic, and close her out. The old Nick Wilde would scoff internally, dismissing her sentimental suggestion. The old Nick Wilde would remind her that they learned the basic steps adequately, and there’s no reason to practice without the right music, which they haven’t downloaded yet.

But the old Nick Wilde was lonely and angry and miserable under a thick, sticky layer of apathy.

“I’d be honored,” he says, taking her paw and standing. She leads him to the center of the room and puts her paw on his upper arm as they switch the positions of their clasped paws. He puts his other paw behind her back, pulling her close. Closer than they were taught in James’ studio. Nick settles with his knees bent, and Judy does the same, her left hip and his stomach so close they could be touching with very little effort. He moves forward with his left foot as she moves backward with her right, then he guides her through a basic box step.

With a subtle touch, he steps forward with a quarter-turn, then backwards with a quarter turn. He pushes lightly on her shoulder and she walks in a circle while he does a box step on his own, only their paws touching before they come back together at the end. When James was demonstrating with Judy, he commented on her unsurprising instinct to backlead, but Nick doesn’t notice the same kind of resistance now that they’re alone. She trusts him to lead her in the right direction. That’s it, isn’t it? He rests his muzzle in the crook of her neck as they come to a stop. Her arms slide around his stomach. They stand there silently, probably looking ridiculous, but there’s no one there to see.

Nothing is okay, but that doesn’t mean everything has to be terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I estimate about 4 chapters left, or rather, 3 chapters and an epilogue (which I’ve already written).


	11. The Connection Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a tearful reunion...and then smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would have been done a lot sooner, but I ended up working on something else. Please enjoy this chapter. It's got Judy/Nick smut in it.
> 
> Also, I added some art to the first chapter. It's garbage, because I can draw at about the same level as a 2nd grader, but I wanted to show Judy in uniform.

Regressivist politics, Nick realizes, is just like grifting, but instead of bargaining away money, politicians’ marks bargain away their freedoms. Ruth always said that the best way to get anyone to do anything was to make them believe they absolutely _needed_ it, and that’s exactly what Mayor Gooseberry and Dawn Bellwether have done. Nick hates going outside now, because he sees the collars and he sees invisible chains tethering all Zootopian citizens to a set of incorrect beliefs.

 _At least I won’t hurt anybody if I go savage_ is a common phrase among large predators, but what Nick hears is _oppression is necessary._

 _At least I have employment options,_ says the mouse in IT who was about to go into law school when the MII went into effect, but what Nick hears is _oppression is necessary._

These mammals will never get their lives back. It’s only been six years, but Nick knows enough about psychological manipulation to know it’s going to take a lot longer than that to unlearn what’s been drilled into everyone’s heads. Mammals have been traumatized. Mammals have been mobilized. In a just world, rebellion wouldn’t be necessary. As it stands, Nick isn’t sure why he stayed so short-sighted for so long.

(No, he knows, it’s just shameful. It’s because he told himself _oppression is necessary,_ and never raged against the system, too afraid of the consequences. He got complacent.)

In the house and in Judy’s apartment, nobody wears a collar. Some part of Nick, the soft side he’s tried and mostly succeeded to squash, is guilty that he’s enjoying freedom that others don’t get to enjoy. If everything goes well, this plan of theirs will grant that freedom to the rest of Zootopia and pull the national proposal up at the roots. Jack has been systematically probing the censor with small clips and blog posts, trying to figure out which keywords are automatically blocked, which ones are flagged, and which ones are in the clear. Now, Nick knows why everyone was forced to change to a single ISP when the walls went up; it was so that they would all only get access to information that Partridge and her cadre of monsters wanted them to see. Not being at all computer savvy, Nick had no idea what that meant when Honey complained about it.

Jack has access to a satellite ISP through a series of sneaky moves, but it has a data limit, so he has to be choosy about what he uses it for. In the past two days, he’s been using it to send emails from a Tasmammalian email address, encouraging Lillian Brown to attend the same gala that Nick and Judy are going to attend tomorrow. Unfortunately, the plan more or less rests on Brown meeting the bare minimum of decency. Fortunately, she seemed skeptical enough of the system when he was pretending to be Robin that she might forgive his deception long enough to get the information where it needs to go.

Nick looks out at the open road, wishing he could stop thinking. He’s tired of worrying. He’s tired of planning. He’s just...tired.

“It’s going to be okay,” Judy murmurs, taking his paw in hers as best she can. The size difference is as stark as the difference in the color of their fur. They haven’t talked about this thing between them, whatever it is, but he thinks it’s been growing. Every time they dance, it’s like he’s pulsing from the inside. He falls asleep to her scent and misses her when he wakes up alone. She’s a liability and a necessity, and he’s not sure what’s worse: that she’s prey or that she’s real. “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

“You’re not the one who’s going to die before trial,” he replies, but he squeezes her paw nonetheless.

“Please. You’re a natural when it comes to stealing public opinions, but I’m a thief. We’ve had an extraction plan since before the Cooper gang disappeared. I guess they always knew failure was a possibility. And it’ll be easier without megafauna. If worse comes to worst, we’re leaving the city. We’re taking you and Finnick with us. And if you say no, we’ll knock you out and tie you up.”

“That’s sweet of you,” he says, aware of how bizarre a response it is, but he’d do the same for her. And probably Jack, too, if only so that she wouldn’t get herself killed trying to save her brother. The most important thing, they’ve all been able to agree, is to _live;_ whatever happens, so long as they don’t die on a job, it’s better to walk away, live to fight another day, than to stick it out, even if it means coming back with more resources later. Nick doesn’t particularly like the thought of leaving Zootopia in danger, but survivor’s guilt is pointless, especially when there’s still a chance these mammals can be helped.

Ruth’s voice carries from inside the vehicle and Nick starts. He hasn’t heard her sing since before John died, but there she is, singing a lullaby he vaguely remembers from his youth. She hasn’t put down the little fox kit – only one of _two,_ this time, much to Judy’s dismay – since the girl came out of the box. She probably won’t put the kit down until they reach Bunnyburrow.

Another van comes into view. Nick recognizes it from the last time they did a Haven run; he’s probably going to see Gideon Grey again, but if the other fox came through, he’ll meet Judy’s parents, too. That’s...an interesting prospect. He doesn’t know what kind of mammals they are, and he has a negative view of them solely because Judy’s view of them has been negative for so long. She doesn’t talk about it, but he knows she’s struggling. It was easy to become a Cooper when she thought her birth parents hated her. But now?

“Hi,” Judy says under her breath. “Hi, Mom. Hello, Mother. Hey, Bonnie.”

“You’re going to be fine,” he says into her ear, allowing the very tip of his tongue to brush against the fur. It’s light enough to be an accident, but the move was very much intentional. It’s part of courtship, at least for foxes. A statement about hygiene and grooming. Normally, this level of intimacy is reserved for mammals who are already partners, but...he and Judy sleep together. He knows his mother’s family was pretty traditionalist, but Ruth didn’t raise him that way; even as she slid back, Nick never got the sense that she wanted him to lose the free-spirited attitude that John tended to pass on to whoever he happened to spend time with.

Judy misses the point entirely and squeezes his paw so tightly he thinks she might cut him with her nails. “I know I’ll be fine, I’m just practicing.”

“It’s not every day you get to meet a version of your parents you didn’t think was real.”

“No.”

“And it’s not every day a daughter comes back from the dead, so maybe don’t stress so hard. Whatever you’re afraid of, I bet you anything they’re afraid of it too. Just let everyone be awkward together and it will pass.”

“Is that what you do?”

He laughs quietly and rubs his thumb over the top of her paw, hoping to encourage her to lighten her grip. “It’s one of the fundamentals. No matter how good you are at letting stuff go and blending in, there will always be situations you didn’t expect, and sometimes they really are awkward. Someone tries to embarrass you. Someone recognizes you from a previous job. You forget to zip up your pants after you pee. I guarantee it’ll be easier on you if you don’t try to play it cool. You’re not aloof, Carrots, you live every second of your life. It’s...something I like about you.”

“And I love your little tricks,” she returns, leaning her head against his upper arm. “I don’t think I’ll ever have the words to express how cool it is to watch you in your element.”

“You think it’s cool that I’m a grifter? A professional liar?”

“Absolutely.”

It’s flattering, and not just because she is who she is. Judy doesn’t just like his faces. She likes _him,_ and she admires him professionally.

A rumble, and then Nick is well and truly blinded by headlights. This is it. _This is it._ He’s not as nervous as Judy, of course, but he’s not exactly calm, either. Judy’s birth parents shaped her into who she was before the walls went up, for better or for worse. However she changed under Sly Cooper’s tutelage, there will always be fundamentals, and these bunnies are where she got them. He has the sudden crazy urge to grab Judy and run. What if she decides to go back with them? It’s not like anything is _really_ holding her here, is there? She’s prey. She could run away and nobody would care.

(No. She wouldn’t. She _wouldn’t_ abandon Zootopia, not when there was still a chance to do the right thing. That’s not in her nature.)

Immediately after the doors open, Nick smells earth and salt. Gideon has brought Bonnie and Stu Hopps to meet their long-lost daughter. She stands stock-still, gripping his paw as though her life depends on it, and although the two older rabbits don’t waste time in rushing at her, she doesn’t seem inclined to move. Her breath hitches and he swishes his tail against the back of her legs, just to remind her that he’s got her back now.

“Mom,” she says carefully as they come to a stop. “Dad.”

“Judy,” Bonnie breathes, gathering her daughter in a hug. It’s an awkward thing, Bonnie’s arms thrown around Judy’s stiff shoulders, Judy’s paw just barely patting Bonnie’s upper back. “I’m so glad you see you.”

“I wasn’t sure you would be,” replies Judy. She does not sound happy. She’s not angry, either, but how do you even _talk_ to someone who, for _years,_ you sincerely believed hated you? Nick can’t answer the question, and he’s a grifter. A liar and sweet-talker by trade. 

“Yeah, Gideon tells us you...had the wrong impression. We thought you were dead, Jude,” says Stu through the beginnings of tears. “We thought you’d been killed. That Dawn mammal called, told us you had died in a riot, and it was easy to believe.”

“Because I’m so _weak,”_ she asks, sounding oddly bitter. There’s a story there, probably.

“No, no,” Bonnie says, giving Judy some distance and clasping her husbands paw. “Because you died for something you _believed_ in. I...I always knew it would happen. You threw yourself into everything you did when you were a kit. If you were acting, you were going to be the _star._ If you were running, you were going to be the fastest. You were the valedictorian of your graduating class. You once made yourself sick trying to eat more than _Bobby Catmull,_ for crying out loud. How could we not believe that you’d given your life to a cause you thought was important?”

Judy’s shoulders slump. She probably feels like shit for thinking the worst. Nick isn’t generally very trusting, but Judy’s parents aren’t liars. They’re both a little twitchy, but that can be chalked up to fear. Nick lets go of her paw and puts his arm around her shoulders so that he can hide her slump. Prop her up until she can stand tall on her own. “Hi, Bonnie, Stu. I’m Nick. For what it’s worth, you’re not wrong. Judy believes in everything she does. She’s amazing.”

Actually, she’s a bit of a pawful, but even though it’s the good kind, Nick isn’t sure he’d call her _amazing._ He just wants to boost her ego, because seeing her so small is kind of weirding him out.

Bonnie looks between the two of them with something like comprehension. She sighs. “It’s nice to meet you, Nick. You’re not coming back with us, are you?”

“No,” says Judy, “I’m not. I have work to do here.”

“Work that can’t be done from the farm?”

“I have mammals I care about who are depending on me.” While that’s true in the strict sense, there isn’t anything that says Judy has to stay in Zootopia. This is a deliberate choice. “I don’t know how to talk to you guys anymore. For six – for six years I thought you _hated_ me. I thought you hated predators so much that when I defended them you cut me out completely. Maybe after this is all over, we can...get coffee and talk, or...but I’m not the same Judy you knew, and I don’t think you’re the same Bonnie and Stu _I_ knew.”

“You’re right, of course,” Stu says. He’s still crying, but at least he’s being quiet about it. “You probably have...a whole...a whole other...another life!”

Okay, _there_ are the sobs. Judy shifts, obviously embarrassed, and Bonnie looks close to tears herself, but she stays sober for her husband’s sake. Judy nods firmly. “I do, Dad. I have another family. Another name. You’re always going to be the ones who raised me.”

Bonnie actually _flinches_ at that, and yeah, there’s a story there. “Is Nick – can I use your first name, dear? – is he part of your family?”

“He’s not a Cooper, but he’s family,” Judy replies. “I’m sorry I can’t give you the answer you want, but life happened. And it was awful for everybody.”

“I’ve seen the older kits who come from the city,” Stu tells them. “We’ve tended to them. We’ve listened to their stories. If Zootopia is half as bad as they say it is, then...they need you, Jude. Just don’t get yourself killed for real.”

Judy _does_ leap forward at this, throwing her arms around her father. While she participates in her little family hug-fest, Nick moves to help Gideon get the kits and Ruth out of the van. When he tries to get the tiny lion cub from the blanket-lined box, it scratches his arm; it doesn’t hurt, and it barely even bleeds, but Ruth’s nose twitches and she looks stricken.

She’s leaving. This might be the last time they see each other. Nick’s surprised at how much it hurts.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says quietly, trying to hug her around the little fox kit in her arms.

She leans her head against his shoulder with a smile and replies, “You’re too much like your father, Nick. I shall be very angry with you if you get yourself, or our bunny, killed.”

 _“Our_ bunny?”

“She’s practically my daughter-in-law. I can claim her if I want.”

“Whoa, _whoa.”_ Nick wants to step back, but he doesn’t want to let go of his mother, so he ends up just shifting awkwardly. “Since when is she married into the family?”

“If you were smart, yesterday,” she snips. “She’s as good as any ancient hunter. At least I know _she_ won’t let you do something stupid.”

Nick thinks about the way Judy jumps into everything headfirst without looking and grins. If anything, he’ll have to keep Judy in line, but Ruth will think what she wants to think. “Mom, I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For doing your best,” he tells her genuinely. “It must have been so hard after Dad died, but you raised me. You taught me how to manipulate mammals and pick their pockets and be cautious. I didn’t really appreciate it before, but you loved me. You were the best mom I could have had.”

“It took you long enough,” she says snootily, but she rubs her scent on him like she hasn’t done since he was a kit.

“It really did.”

“Hey, ah, sorry ta break this up, but we gotta get going,” Gideon says apologetically. Nick looks over at Judy, who seems calmer now.

“Yeah.” Nick helps Ruth into the van and adds under his breath, “Take care of my mom, will you?”

“I reckon yer mom’ll do just fine with Mr. and Mrs. Hopps, but I’ll stop in and give ‘er some berry pies,” Gideon replies. That’s good enough.

As the van pulls away, Judy grabs his paw again. “I told them that we have a plan.”

“Did you tell them what the plan is?”

“I’m not that dumb.” She laughs lightly. “They do know part of it rests on Mayor Partridge continuing to be exactly who she is, though.”

“Which is unfortunate. I’m _sure_ our esteemed Mayor will be open to all sorts of changes, once she has to distance herself from Dawn Bellwether,” he says. He tries not to laugh at the idea of Partridge ever admitting to being wrong about anything.

“Right. And I’ve got a tomb to sell you,” she snorts, and Nick’s heart soars. Classic grifter references. She really knows how to get to him.

* * *

When Nick and Judy arrive at the apartment, Jack and Finnick are already there, arguing over the remote. Now that Ruth is out of the house, they’ve decided not to use it as a safehouse; it isn’t as secure as Judy’s apartment, and the neighbors are more likely to ask questions. But along with the change in safehouse will inevitably come a change in lifestyle, because the Coopers’ television is _giant._

Great.

He rolls his eyes and idly laps at his cut. It’s a tiny thing, more of a scratch than anything. It’ll be gone in a couple of days, which is good, because Nick has come to detest the smell of blood. He could blame Judy’s reckless lifestyle for that, but the truth is, he’s a _fox._ A long time ago, they lost the ability to digest raw meat properly, and somehow Nick’s nose can tell him when something isn’t edible.

“Don’t lick it,” Judy hisses, sounding oddly disturbed for someone who, up until she started spending time with him, spent the majority of her time practically _wearing_ her own blood.

“Why not?”

“Because we’re not our ancestors and it’s weird. Also unsanitary.”

He looks her in the eye and runs his long tongue over the shallow cut, licking his lips afterward. She bites her lip and looks away. Her breaths turn shallow.

“Nick, if you don’t stop that I’ll have to pawcuff you for your own good,” she says finally, pretending to be annoyed despite the shake in her voice...but Nick feels a jolt run through him at the dangerously attractive picture that presents. He can imagine her, taking him down like she did on the balcony of the Hoofstadt mansion, bringing his arms behind and snapping the cuffs on tightly. She would haul him up by his collar, push him against the wall, and then –

 _Whoa._ Not appropriate, Nick. This is a weird time to be having fantasies. It’s a weird thing to fantasize about. He makes an accidental moaning sound, a tiny noise he can hardly hear, but judging by her swiveled ear and her sharp breath, _Judy_ heard well enough.

He pretends it didn’t happen. “It’s barely a cut, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’ll be fine! Just don’t _lick_ it!”

And...clarity. She likes his tongue, doesn’t she? That’s useful information. He licks again, this time going slowly, swirling his tongue more than is strictly necessary to lap up the blood that isn’t even flowing. He really does moan this time, exaggerating the noise, relishing her widened eyes and twitching nose. And then – again, exaggerated – he winks at her, and he can _see_ the ire building up.

“Don’t hurt yourself, Sweetheart,” he quips.

“You…you…” The fire in her eyes is enchanting. He knows she’s angry, but she’s just so beautiful like that, and he wants her to…wants…what does he want? This is a poorly thought-out plan isn’t it?

“I, me,” he goads, just to see what she’ll do. She grabs him by the knot of his tie, tugging him down, and hesitates, just sharing air. He could pull away, he knows, but maybe this has been a long time coming. _This_ is what he wants. He wants it. He wants _her,_ and she seems to want him too. A little breathlessly, he says, “Go on, then. Do it.”

Nobody ever accused Judy Laverne Cooper of turning down an opportunity, because she’s a thief. She’s on him and in his mouth just milliseconds after he prods her into kissing him, small firm tongue lapping at his incisors – and _oh,_ is that good – to get a thorough taste of him. It’s funny that she takes everything she wants except him. For him, she waited for permission, and he wants to make a horribly inappropriate joke about it, but he can’t _think_ like this. She’s in his space, in his head, in his life. He lets out a noise that isn’t obscene, exactly, but that word will do in a tight spot, and her paws clench around his tie and in his shirt.

There’s an annoyed throat-clearing sound and he realizes that they still have an audience. She pulls away, pulling a tiny bit on his bottom lip with her large teeth, and it sends a great shivering thrill from his nose to his tail-tip.

“C’mon, Slick, we have unfinished business,” she says, giving a firm tug on his tie and pulling him along. He glances from Jack to Finnick, and he _knows_ he has a stupid, dopey smile on his face, but he doesn’t care. Nick just points at Judy, shrugs helplessly, and lets her drag him along to her bedroom, where she closes the door and spins so that he’s pressed up against it.

In this position, her ribcage is at the right height to press against his groin as she runs her paws up and under his Tommy Bapawma shirt. It’s the red one she doesn’t like, but that doesn’t seem to be enough to stop her from nuzzling him. She makes neat work of his buttons, the same way she makes neat work of tumbler locks and rope knots – _idea,_ some part of him thinks – and he reaches for her, but she grips his paws in her own strong, callused ones and tells him, “Not yet. When I’m through with you, you’ll be begging me to let you touch me.”

“I can beg now,” he returns helpfully, and then groans as she rubs him through his pants. Why did he have to wear the _soft_ ones today?

She pulls on his paws and he follows her obediently to her little bed. It hardly seems big enough for them to share, but then, she seems happy enough to crawl on top of him after pushing him down onto it. He knew she’d be forceful. He _wants_ her to be forceful. Truthfully, he’s surprised that she’s not putting all of that strength to use. If she wanted, realistically, she could hold him down long enough to cuff him, really make him beg, and that thought is so _hot_ he’s afraid he won’t last long.

As she sits astride him, she captures him with her eyes, intense and _amazing_ and he almost misses it when she asks, “Are you sure you’re all right with this? I’m not forcing you into anything or hurting you?”

“You could stand to hurt me a little more,” he quips, grinning sharply up at her. “I will probably explode if you don’t.”

Her smile is deadly. One small kiss to the side of his muzzle turns into a series of nips, incrementally sharper as she moves from his face to his neck and further. He reaches for her again but she stops him, pressing his forearms to the mattress right by his thighs. If he tried, he could get out of her grip, but _why the fucking hell would he want to?_ This is everything he’s been trying not to think about for the past little while, and he didn’t even have to bring it up and make things weird.

Her mouth moves to the zipper of his slacks and his mouth drops open in shock and lust as she pulls it down with her teeth. So that’s why she stopped with his top button at the door, the sneaky thing. At his expression, she very deliberately licks him through his clothing, and his hips jut up at the sensation.

“You don’t stop squirming, I might have to cuff you to the slats,” she says playfully, but…god, does it backfire. He can’t hold in the embarrassing keening noise at all.

“Oh, _please do.”_

Her eyes flutter as she lets go of one arm to stroke her mother’s pawcuffs from her belt. He’s never been so grateful for sentimentality in his life. But she shakes her head and says, “I’m sorry, Nick, not before we’ve talked about it. These are police-issue anyway.”

“I’ll just hold onto the slats then,” he replies, somehow both disappointed and _incredibly_ turned on. “Another grift, just like you like.”

He reaches up and grips the slats firmly, leaving himself completely open to her, watching as she tears her own clothes off with alarming ferocity. The headboard is somewhat flimsy, so he can’t struggle too much if he doesn’t want to break the bed, but that just makes everything so much more intense. A _choice_ to be still and pliant for her. A personal challenge to achieve. Another painting to steal.

“I can’t believe you’re so dang _perfect,”_ she murmurs, and scoots down to remove his slacks and undergarments in one quick movement. Despite everything, he’s only beginning to show, so she gets creative, running her tongue along the curve of his testicles and coaxing him out with a soft knuckle across the space just below that. He bucks his hips again and she pinches his inner thigh between her teeth, hard enough to make him yelp. “If you struggle too much and break my bed or hurt yourself, I’ll put my fist up your tailhole.”

“You could do tha _ooooh, God.”_ Her tongue at his tip is such a thrill he can’t finish whatever he was about to say. It was probably stupid, so he doesn’t care. He wants to touch her and he _can’t_ if he wants to play the game and he actually _could_ break her rickety bed with a hard-enough jerk so he has to stay still through all of this…can it really be called torture if he likes it? Her paws are everywhere and her tongue is – her tongue is – gone.

Her paws slide off as well and he’s going to die, he’s sure of it.

“Hmm,” she says, putting enough pressure on his chest to make him open his eyes. “I’m very jealous, Nick. And impatient. Maybe I want your mouth on me, first.”

“I would return the Devil’s Eye for the opportunity,” he replies, because if nothing else, he knows how to flatter a thief.

“Want to prove it?”

_“Yes.”_

He mouths at her knee, her lower thigh, her upper thigh as she situates herself, tucking her feet through the loops of his arms and under his shoulders so she won’t put any pressure on him in an inconvenient place. Through the overwhelming, interesting smell of her, some part of him is touched that she’s putting so much care into preserving him, but mostly he just wants to taste her, and she wants him to, so he does.

It’s not as delicious as he thought it would be, but the noises she makes more than make up for that. She undulates above his chest, powerful legs working to keep her upright even as he does his level best to make her melt. He pays close attention to the little bead of hers, because she jolts every time he licks it, and every time she moans it sends pulses of heat through him. He read somewhere, probably in one of the old romance novels in the closet with John Wilde’s old trinkets, that you’re supposed to mouth the ABC’s, but that seems too banal for mammals like them. He tries to lick the names of famous jewels, but she pulls away just as he’s getting the hang of it.

He groans. She’s going to tease _herself,_ too? That’s dedication.

“Nick,” she says, breath heavy against his arm. He could bite her neck from here, but he doesn’t think she’d enjoy it half as much as he enjoyed being bitten. “I want to ride you so hard you’ll come apart at the seams, but only if it’s okay with you.”

“If you don’t,” he tells her through a great shiver, “I’ll know you’re the worst kind of sadist. A fiend. A-”

“Shut _up,_ you goose.”

He watches and admires the ripple of muscle that her fur can’t hide as she unhooks from him and scoots back. Her legs are open wide and the sight leaves him panting, but he can’t even be embarrassed about it, especially when she – when _she –_

If this is what sex is usually like, he can finally see the appeal. Sinking down onto him was good enough, but her clenching around him, the way she can’t help but _move_ even as she’s obviously adjusting…he was just exaggerating before, but he thinks he might actually explode this time. It’s almost too much. _He_ definitely is, they find, but that doesn’t stop her. A little thing like biology never would. She reaches down and helps him along while she bounces up and down, her left paw cupping his testicles and her right coaxing _oh, great fires above,_ the sight of her touching herself is intoxicating, this is going to kill him.

“Judy, Judy, please,” he nearly whines, and so what if he’s doing precisely what she predicted? “Please let me t – _ng!”_

She tenses up, clamping down on him, and it’s good enough to make him see stars, but he’s not…finished yet. He can’t help twisting while he clings desperately to the headboard, and she seems to get the hint, because she moves again even though he can tell she’s having some kind of jitter. And then he’s in a freefall, parts of the world growing and shrinking, and he’s shaking, and is the bed tipping or is his equilibrium off or is he dying _or what?_

And his stomach hurts, but it’s over. She moves off of him, giggling slightly when it makes him dribble, and on shaking extremities she drags her body up his chest as he shakes his paws to get the blood flowing again. He immediately throws his arms around her, heedless of the sticky mess on them both, because he _would_ have begged to touch her, had he been able to come up with the words.

“So,” she says with a little hum into his chest. He’s okay with that.

“So,” he echoes.

“What did you think?”

“Mostly I just felt,” he admits.

“That’s great! Me too, actually.” She sighs, and it’s a good one, the kind of sigh you do as you’re sinking into a much-needed bath. “Nick…I’ve stolen a lot of things in the past few years. Jewels, books, artefacts. I have an entire room full of stolen treasures. But of everything I have, I like you best. You’re the only treasure I can’t replace. Are you going to stay with me?”

“You won’t be able to get rid of me.” It’s true, but he’s never been one to leave it when there’s a joke to be told. “I’ll follow you around and call you Mistress Carrots and look very sad every time you leave the room.”

“Don’t tease me, Nick, that’s _rude.”_

“Yeah, well, nobody’s ever accused me of being polite,” he retorts, and he’s pretty sure this isn’t normal pillow talk, but that’s okay. Neither of them are normal. They’re about to go and be big damn heroes, but more importantly, they’re _thieves._ Judy’s certainly stolen his heart.

“We need to shower,” she murmurs, making no effort to get up.

“In a bit,” he promises. “Just a few more minutes.”

He is so lucky that he was commissioned to procure the Staff of Genevieve and was good enough to succeed. It put him on Judy’s radar _after_ she became a thief. If he’d known Judy before, they probably wouldn’t be here now, fur joined by semen and other secretions, and okay, yeah, it’s nasty and they need a shower. On the other paw…

Everything is already there. They can hold each other for a little longer and it won’t make a difference.

“I’m going to get us some condoms,” he says inanely, dragging claw-tips through the fur on her back.

“You do that,” she replies. It may not be a Harlequin novel, but it’s perfect because she’s Judy and he’s Nick, and they’re thieves, and with any luck, he has stolen her heart right back.


	12. The Politics Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the plan goes perfectly, but it also goes very, very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been vague about their plan thus far, but I don't think this chapter will be a surprise to anyone.

The sunhat and oversized tortoise-shell glasses are a little much, but Nick understands the need for anonymity in front of cops. They make him jumpy and he’s only watching from a camera in the van. Jack hacked into the security feed in the station, because _of course_ he did, so Judy doesn’t need to wear the weird-looking communicator glasses when she meets her contact.

Her _contact._ On the _police force._

She slips through a door, managing not to catch anyone’s attention despite her silly outfit, and heads toward – if the blueprints are right – the boiler room. Records. At least, whoever it is, they’re not active duty. She pushes the door open and edges inside. Nick watches Jack follow the cameras and they get their first look at her contact: a surly-looking buffalo, whose horns are painfully filed down and whose bulk is downright terrifying. This is a mammal who could kill Judy with a firm flick.

“I’m busy,” the buffalo grouches. It sounds tinny through Judy’s earbud.

Sounding rather cheerful, Judy asks, “Too busy for an old friend?”

He brings out a pair of glasses and leans forward before snorting. “I should have known. What do _you_ want?”

“I just want to talk,” she tells him. “More specifically, I want to talk about the records you _don’t_ file.”

“I take my job seriously. There aren’t any records I don’t file.”

“Then who’s the one who’s been keeping a list of police brutality incidents?”

That scowl chills Nick. Judy doesn’t even drop her smile. Then again, Nick suspects she doesn’t have a very good sense of self-preservation most of the time, either because she’s incapable of fear or she’s just so used to it that it’s like an old wound she doesn’t notice. His money’s on the second. There’s a lot to fear in Zootopia, especially for a small mammal whose species commands no respect. The buffalo, whose name tag reads “BOGO,” lowers his voice. “So you’re the one behind the network. I should have known. You’ve always been a damn menace, Hopps.”

What’s the history here? When this is all over, he wants to swap stories.

“That _is_ my specialty, but no, I’m not the one who came up with the network. I just participate. And before you ask, I’m _not_ looking to take your files. I just thought you should know there will be an opportunity very shortly to finally put them to use.”

“What did you do,” Bogo asks warily.

“Nothing yet, but if you’ve been keeping an ear on the indie news, I’m sure you’ve heard by now that there isn’t a savage disease, even _if_ City Hall is doing enough damage control that lots of mammals still don’t trust us about it. It’s systematic drugging of predators. My team and I-”

_“Team?_ You managed to sucker someone into going vigilante with you?”

_“My team and I_ are going to expose this terrorist tonight. By tomorrow, if everything goes well, you’ll have reporters and politicians knocking on your door...if you’re willing to take the risk. I won’t put your name out if you think it’s too dangerous, but I want justice for the mammals who’ve been hurt or killed because the cops were _allowed_ to get away with it. Do you?”

Bogo rubs his forehead, a gesture Nick gets the impression is a habit by now rather than an immediate need. Then again, he _is_ dealing with Judy. “Yes. I have a few officers I knew I could trust going into this, and they’ve been helping keep track of this too. I want to protect them, but I’ll put _my_ name on this thing and leave it up to them to come forward. I’m not going to ask what you’re doing, or who you’re doing it with. I don’t want to have to arrest you today. Just make sure you do it right, or I won’t be here to protect _anyone.”_

“I’ll do everything I can to help make this right,” she promises. “Thank you, Chief. Thanks so much.”

“I’m not the Chief anymore. Haven’t been for a long time,” he sighs.

“Yeah...we’ve both fallen pretty far from those days, when I used to come into the station and get unofficial tips from Clawhauser and Wolfard, huh?”

“The halcyon days when I was blind to my own bigotry, you mean. Prove to me that I was wrong about you, Hopps. I want to be left feeling like the biggest idiot for doubting you’d ever amount to anything, understand?”

“Yes, Sir,” she says cheekily, saluting with precision.

“And get out of here before someone sees you. I really don’t want to have to explain you to anyone who might know enough to ask questions.”

Judy slips out of the room again, and Nick can’t keep the smile off his face. She may not think of herself as a great salesmammal, but she doesn’t need to be, does she? This could work. They have the _former Chief of Police_ on their side. He can hardly believe it, but they _do._

This could work.

* * *

It’s not that Nick is _scared,_ necessarily, but tonight is the night, and he only has a couple of hours left. The optimism from this morning has diminished due to the ticking of the clock. They’ve done their recon, they’ve made their connections, they’ve dotted their I’s and crossed their T’s, and _tonight is the night._ At the soiree Bellwether’s donors and supporters are throwing, Nick and Judy are going to drop the bomb. Whether it works or not is entirely up to other mammals, hence the...not-fear. Anxiety, maybe.

“You can go on in, Ambassador Kelley,” says the llama at the front desk, whose face Nick can barely see from his position on the floor. This is a little anxiety-inducing as well. Not only has Nick’s status been upgraded from “escort” to “United Mammalian Nations representative who also happens to be a very rich businessmammal,” but he’s going to have to let Ambassador Brown in on a bit of the plan.

Ambassador Brown, who is a good mammal and shouldn’t have to be caught up in criminal acts.

Ambassador Brown, who he drugged to get at her dummy collar.

Ambassador Brown, whose phone he stole.

“Thank you,” he tells the clerk. If nothing else, he can appeal to her better nature. It’s what Judy would do. He’s still trying to internalize the fact that some mammals  _ have  _ a better nature, but he can’t exactly argue with the results of Judy’s overtures to Duke Weaselton and the cops.

When Nick lets himself into the small temporary office used by the Ambassador for meetings, she looks up and gives him a confused, but not hostile, expression. “Do I know you?”

“A bit,” he says, dropping the accent. “You and I went to a party once. My name was Robin.”

“Oh, right!” She smiles genuinely. “I didn’t expect to see you again.”

Nick hesitates by the chair and then decides he might as well get comfortable. This honesty thing is going to be hard, he just knows it. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you again either, but I...find myself in need of a contact.”

“Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“Not yet,” he says grimly, and then – deciding not to beat around the bush – goes for it. “Ambassador Brown, I wasn’t completely honest with you that night. I’ll understand if you’re angry with me and don’t want to help, but I’m not asking for myself. I’m asking for the oppressed citizens of Zootopia. Just...please keep that in mind when you hear what I have to say.”

He can see the shift from Lillian to Ambassador. It’s a lot like Nick’s shift from Nick Wilde to whatever persona he happens to be using. Politics in general isn’t that different from grifting, he supposes, even if that’s a tough pill to swallow. “This is about the collars, isn’t it?”

At least she’s on the ball. He nods. “It is.”

“Tell me everything.”

“The first thing you’ll want to know,” he says, “is that Robin isn’t my real name. I’ve been working undercover. I can’t tell you who sent me, or what my real name is, but the next time you see me I’ll be Ambassador John Kelley.”

“Who is 80 years old,” she says, eyes narrow, “and you’re already copping to a crime.”

“That’s true, but my mission isn’t exactly nefarious. I don’t know how tuned in you are to independent news, but it’s been discovered that there isn’t such a thing as a savage disease. Certain government parties have been poisoning predators, and in doing so,  _ creating  _ a reason for shock collar use. Said plainly, this is biological terrorism. My team and I don’t intend to stand for it, but we don’t have the sway to do much more than expose the conspiracy. You, on the other paw, have a legitimate place within your government.”

“And therefore authority within the UMN to launch a probe if it becomes necessary.”

“You don’t get to be an ambassador by being stupid,” he says evenly. She raises a brow. “I don’t expect you to do anything illegal, beyond  _ not  _ letting anyone know that I’m not the real John Kelley. I’m sorry that I can’t tell you everything, but it’s a risk management issue. My team needs to be protected, and without knowing that we can trust you, or how much, I’m only willing to put my own safety on the line.”

“You spy types are too paranoid for your own good. I appreciate the candor, but why not be honest with me in the first place? I would have talked to you to begin with. I talked to you easily enough when you were pretending to be an escort.”

“Because I  _ was  _ an escort, and therefore, not in a position of power. Without knowing who you were or how you thought, my team figured that was the safest way to find out. It...I don’t mean to give you stupid excuses, but I follow orders, Ma’am. Ambassador Brown.”

“Lillian,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Don’t think I’m not angry about the deception,  _ Robin,  _ or whoever you really are, but I’m not unaware of how your type of agency works. I’ll make you a deal: you give me as much of your intelligence as you’re allowed, and I will aid you as much as I can.”

“If you’ll just pretend to know me as John Kelley, that will take care of legitimacy issues, but I’ll get my team to send you the relevant details anyway. The real issue is political; my mission is just to make sure no one can cover up the atrocities the Zootopian government is committing against its own citizens.” He offers his paw over the table to shake. “Can you live with that deal?”

“Certainly.”

They shake on it, and Nick has no idea how that went so smoothly, except that maybe she doesn’t have a better nature; maybe she’s just a better mammal. That’s an interesting idea. He’s just glad that she took his hints and assumed he was some kind of spy, instead of guessing closer to the truth. There’s a lot less damage control to do this way. “Thank you very much, Lillian.”

“You’re welcome. See yourself out, would you?”

Nick nods, stands, and heads for the door, but before he can exit, she says, “Wait.”

He turns to look at her. “Yes?”

“Good luck. I’ve seen the kinds of things they do to disobedient mammals here. I’m sure that with your information, I can make a more robust report, but keep yourself safe, all right?”

“...I will,” he tells her, and leaves the office, throwing a closed-mouthed grin at the assistant behind the desk. Leaving the building feels like shrugging off a heavy weight; he doesn’t exactly feel guilty for using her, but he’s glad she’s on board. There was a big possibility that they’d have to resort to blackmailing a different representative, and that would have meant dealing with Lillian in an unpleasant way to keep her from talking. He’s going to be glad when this is over, and not just because mammals will know the truth. He much prefers conning mammals out of their valuables to subversive political scheming.

“That was great,” Judy enthuses once he enters the van. She shuts the back doors behind him and Finnick takes off. Jack, predictably, says nothing, although he’s smiling at the screen in a way that looks almost satisfied. “Whoof, you really had her eating off your pawpads!”

“She’s a good mammal,” Nick replies, somewhat distracted by the way her Wonder Wombat shirt doesn’t quite hide the outline of the knife in her belt. “You know what, I think this is the first time aside from that day in the alley that I’ve ever seen you out of uniform.”

“You see me in my pajamas all the time.”

“You know what I mean.”

She shrugs. “I like my uniform. It makes me feel close to my family.”

Once again, Nick physically  _ feels  _ the reminder that the policies enacted by Gooseberry and her cohort fucked over everyone outside of their own little private party. The truth is, even well-off bunny families like the Leapyears are still considered a joke; the only difference between them and Judy is that they don’t mind. He understands that bunnies as a whole are conditioned to be satisfied with the bare minimum, but he never paid attention to what that  _ meant.  _ Politicians will take anyone’s money and promise the world to whoever donates, but they don’t usually follow through. What else has he missed by closing his eyes? What other ills and pains has he willfully ignored just because he’s had a rough time of it?

Why does it matter? They’re getting out. No matter what happens tonight, they’re leaving Zootopia. He just hopes, like a complete sucker, that they can leave it a little cleaner than it is now.

“You seem so serious,” says Judy, touching his chest. Gah, when did she get so close?

“Just thinking about the plan.” He pats her paw and moves it off of his chest. “This is insane.”

“I know. And it’s almost perfect.”

He looks down at her. “Almost?”

“Yeah, almost. It’s a great plan, except I don’t see how any of this will help the other victims of the MII.”

“There isn’t anything we can do about the MII except spread awareness,” Nick tells her. “The collars, we’ve got a chance. But the MII? It’s normal legislation, not an emergency protocol. The citizens voted, even predators. _Especially_ predators. We were led to believe it would make sure we weren’t excluded from society for our collars. Just because the voters were misled doesn’t mean it’s an illegal initiative.”

“But it’s _wrong!”_

“So is hostile architecture. So is redistricting.” He focuses on her, watching her ears fall. It has to be said. Pointedly, he adds, “So is what happened to your species during the First Agreements. But all of these wrong things were _agreed upon by the majority._ Legal and morally wrong aren’t mutually exclusive. I’m not a politician, Carrots, and neither are you. We’ll never be. We _can’t_ be. We’ve both got criminal histories for miles and not enough education to go around. Is it shitty that we’re going to have to let it go? Yeah, it is. But you can’t save everyone.”

“But-”

“Let it go,” he tells her gently, resting his paw between her ears. She lazily bats at his arm, but doesn’t make any move to actually remove the limb. He scritches the area with soft claw-tips and sighs. “Everything this administration did will be called into question, and with the sheer amount of information we’ll be releasing tonight, it won’t go ignored. But if there’s one thing grifting has taught me, it’s that we can’t control all the variables. We have to be able to adapt, in real time if necessary, and above all we have to _stick to the plan.”_

Blinking furiously, she says, “I just want everyone to be _free._ And maybe abolishing the MII would just be a smokescreen to hide the scrambling behind the scenes, but I keep thinking about how this is going to be a freaking massacre. Mammals are going to be so angry. Mammals are going to die, they’re going to riot and _die,_ and there’s nothing we can do to stop it. If we could ease it just a little…”

“But we can’t. All we can do is what we set out to do in the first place.”

“I know, Nick,” she acknowledges, and he really does understand where she’s coming from. It’s just not viable. All they can do is all they can do, and that’s going to have to be enough. There are other mammals, _better_ mammals, who will pick up the slack when the team is gone to ground.

* * *

 

 

> **Interlude: The Ballad of Judy Cooper**
> 
> Pressed against Nick like this, I can almost imagine myself as Dad. Mom was graceful and quick and beautiful. I’m none of those things, not like a vixen is, but I feel more like a Cooper right now than I ever have before. With my pretty lace mask on my face and a fox in my arms, locked in a dance, I feel like I’m stealing him away. Just outside, in the van, I have my cane and my usual clothes, but in here, I’m not Laverne or Alice or any of my various faces; I’m Judy, and I’m having an intimate silent conversation with the mammal I love.
> 
> Great gardenias, I feel _amazing._ I haven’t felt this good since Mom and Dad died. Out of all the things Nick has done for me and Jack, the most important one is making me slow down. With regular sleep, regular meals, and real focus, I feel like a new bunny. Realistically I _know_ I can’t take on the world, but I feel like I can. With this fox at my side, I’m going to save the city. Save the country. Save the world.
> 
> I make a face when I take a sip of my champagne, pulling Nick’s paw along like a pro. Ugh. I’ve never understood why anyone likes this. It’s sweet and bubbly and weird, like if soda had a lovechild with fermented regrets. Still, it’s part of the act; we had to practice that 18 times before I could make it look graceful enough to be believable. I’m supposed to look like harmless arm candy for Nick’s slick businessmammal and UMN representative until we get a chance to unveil Dawn’s crimes.
> 
> I’m gonna steal that crown from you, Dawn Bellwether, and make you _eat it._
> 
> When the song ends, Nick _dings_ my glass with a sharpened claw until mammals are looking at us. Nobody really does this outside of movies, but that’s the nice thing about playing a rich guy, I guess. He can get away with it. “Hello, assorted guests.”
> 
> Everybody looks at him in confusion. They’re all probably wondering who this Irish weirdo is. He simply grins at them and puts his arm around me. “On this most auspicious of evenings, I thought I ought to say what Ms. Bellwether has done for me, and for my associates. Our lives have changed immensely in the past while. But first, a word from my dear friend, who was essential to my acclimation here in Zootopia.”
> 
> This is my cue. Can I do it? Can I sell integrity? I guess we’ll find out.
> 
> “Hello, everyone,” I say brightly. Dawn’s head snaps up. She must have seen the video we sent out. Good; I have her attention. “When I met John, he was confused about why he had to wear a blinking light around his neck. I had to be the bearer of bad news, but we reached an understanding. Ms. Bellwether was crucial to the process of treating collared predators less like inherent criminals and more like sick mammals, and when John finally understood what the fake collars are for...I understood what the _real_ ones are for.”
> 
> There’s some muttering. I press on and remove my mask. “It’s control. I’ve been studying the so-called “savage disease” for years now, and the dark truth is that there _is_ no disease. For six years, Dawn Bellwether has been drugging predators with a toxin from a plant called Midnicampum holicithias, colloquially known as Night Howlers. When the toxin enters the bloodstream – and it’s as easy as getting it on your skin – it crosses the blood-brain barrier and shuts down the parts of the brain associated with speech, cognitive function, and coordination. If you’ll turn your attention to the screen, you’ll see for yourselves that it’s not just predators who can go savage; it’s little baby bunnies, too. Any mammal can go savage if affected by the toxin. In each of your gift baskets, you’ll find a booklet with decoded notes from Dawn Bellwether’s personal journal, detailing her plan to gain power and prestige and unity in the city of Zootopia. Don’t worry; if somehow you manage to lose the gift basket before you’re allowed to leave, my associates are now flooding the internet with copies of this journal. The censors will be working overtime tonight, folks!”
> 
> Half the mammals here are from other parts of Animalia and other countries entirely, and that’s the point. Those mammals are disgusted at what’s being shown on the screen. They’re the ones already leafing through our planted booklets. It doesn’t matter if native Zootopians get on board or not; we’re not talking to them. We’re talking to the world. As we stand here preaching, Jack and Honey are streaming this everywhere they can.
> 
> “My name is Judy Hopps, and I’m one of Dawn’s first victims. But in the grand scheme of things, I’m simply collateral damage. The drugging of predators is, in my opinion, no less than an act of terror upon citizens of Animalia. This administration has been complicit in her crimes, although we have no evidence to show that they were actively participating; their policies largely revolve around the subjugation and control of “problem elements,” including but not limited to anyone with predatory ancestry.
> 
> “But I implore you: remember your neighbors. Your friends. Before the walls went up – or in some cases, right now – you lived in relative harmony with your fellow mammals. Sure, there was unrest and lots of prejudice, and some species feuded with others. But until the collars went on, was the divide between predator and prey _ever_ so large? No, it wasn’t. Dawn capitalized on _fear.”_ I reach out my paw, trying to look as inviting as possible. There’s too much muttering for me to make out any individual words, but nobody is stopping me, either. “Please don’t let fear win. It’s ruined the lives of so many mammals already, predator and prey alike. We’ve lost good doctors, good lawyers, and good cops to this nightmare.
> 
> “I don’t have any compensation for your help. I don’t have anything to offer you except your own integrity. If you leave here tonight and refuse to believe that predators are anything more than savages, if you go home to your cozy bed and forget about the suffering of the living, breathing residents of Zootopia, then you are no better than the mammal who has drugged-”
> 
> My ears turn toward a noise that doesn’t belong. I know that noise, because I make it all the time; it’s the noise of someone taking the cover off of an air vent. I glance around quickly and see...
> 
> _Oh, no._ This is the part where I have to do something monumentally stupid.
> 
> “Run,” I tell Nick as I push him out of the way. From this angle, it’d go right down his shirt, and nobody would know. “Don’t let him shoot-”
> 
> I feel an unpleasant _pinch_ under my fur, as I hoped I could avoid when I heard the hiss of a modified dart gun. I guess I’m still just not a good enough thief. Not fast enough. The world begins to fade at the edges. I know I’ve been hit with a night howler dart, a nicer version of the paintball-like pellets they used to use. I lose control over my limbs – _please,_ don’t let me hurt anyone too badly – as my heart pounds and pounds and pounds and

* * *

Savage mammals don’t seize up and foam at the mouth, they attack everyone around them. That’s how Nick knows that something is very, _very_ wrong. He drops to his knees and cradles her head, turning her onto her side, and shouts, “Someone call EMS!”

Judy twitches. Nick has no idea how to do any kind of medical check, and he has never felt more _useless._ Angrily, he whispers, “I’m going to bench you for this, you hear me? You’ll never work again until you can promise me... _promise_ me…”

Right, Nick made a promise to Judy. He needs to keep it. Standing again, leaving Judy in the care of a serious-looking koala who (after a cursory check) immediately begins chest compressions, he raises his still-accented voice. “Do you see this? My companion, Judy Hopps, was sharing the ugly truth about this city, and look what happened! Someone tried to _kill_ her in front of the whole party!”

“Ambassador Kelley is right,” says Lillian Brown, nodding to him. “If they’re brave enough to attempt an assassination in broad view, what else do they have the balls for?”

At that moment, Jack and Honey come through. Over the loudspeakers plays Dawn Bellwether’s furious whispering into her cell phone, “Send Meredith with the gun! We have to shut Hopps up _now!_ Dart the fox. He’ll eat her first.”

It plays on repeat. Aside from the koala tending to Judy, everyone looks toward the undersized sheep, who _finally_ looks nervous. She may not be defeated yet, but she’s certainly caught, and in front of powerful mammals, she doesn’t stand a chance. Mayor Gooseberry is one thing; she’s corrupt enough to bury this for her own well-being. But they chose the venue well.

_Judy._ It doesn’t feel like a triumph.

EMS hustles in and gently places Judy onto a stretcher. Nick tries to follow, but the driver blocks his path, and Nick snarls, “That’s my _girlfriend!_ That’s – _please_ don’t make me-”

“Your girlfriend is a wanted criminal who may have just suffered cardiac arrest,” the paramedic says. “Not that she’ll last, if that is the case but protocol is protocol, especially for scum.”

Brilliant. Nick was worried about dying before trial. He should have been more worried about her tendency for self-sacrifice.

“Come on, John,” says Lillian from beside him, tugging on his elbow. “I believe we have some things to discuss.”

_Cardiac arrest._ _Not that she’ll last._ _Scum._ Bonnie and Stu Hopps were right: she’s always been willing to die for a cause she believed in. How is he supposed to finish this without her? How is he supposed to tell the Hoppses he let her die for real this time?

Things unfold in bits and pieces.

One minute, Nick is sitting under a goddamn _shock blanket_ like he’s the one who got hurt

_(wanted criminal, protocol, scum)_

and the next, he’s muzzle-to-muzzle with Senator Grove. He has a sense of what’s being talked about, and he knows he’s been replying, but he can’t remember the beginning of the conversation. He can’t even remember how he _got_ here.

“I would suggest reparations,” he hears himself saying, accent immaculate. “Wouldn’t you agree, Ambassador Brown?”

“I certainly would.”

“And who would _fund_ that,” asks Grove with a hint of despair.

“The Animalian taxpayers, obviously.” Nick’s voice is venomous behind the thick glass of his own blurry perception. “When the walls went up, who objected? When collar legislation went into effect, who marched against it? The ones who objected won’t mind their tax dollars going to fix what you allowed to be broken, and the ones who celebrated don’t deserve a voice here.”

“But...Ambassador _Kelley-”_

“The alternative is, of course, a UMN investigation. Your country is already on the precipice of disaster, Senator. Your standing with major world governments has been negligible for some time, and now, a good mammal is dead because she tried to spread the truth to the world. Many mammals will look at her as a martyr. You know this. Reparations are a token gesture, but would most likely save you from the consequences of an investigation.”

“If it were me,” says Lillian, “I’d start with compensation for lost jobs and opportunities due to collaring, either in a lump sum payment or in installments. Higher education opportunities for those who should have been able to go during the six years of complete oppression you allowed the Zootopian government to inflict on its ancestrally predatory citizens.”

“And no-cost insurance,” Nick adds vaguely. His voice, he thinks, sounds fine, but he feels like he’s about to pass out. This is all just regurgitated from their months of planning and scriptwriting, else he would sound a little more phony. Or not be able to do it at all. “There are many predators – I have their names and affidavits in lieu of testimony in my personal files – who have avoided seeking treatment for serious injuries, especially collar-related injuries, for fear of being thrown out or being unable to pay for medication. Consider the _psychological_ damage this has done. It needs to be addressed, Senator. It all needs to be addressed.”

“My colleagues will never agree.”

“Then perhaps you ought to remind your _esteemed_ colleagues that there is a proposition in circulation right now that would nationalize the collar legislation. How embarrassing it would be for _that_ to come up in a UMN probe.” Grove opens his mouth-

And then he’s sitting at a table with a fruit salad in front of him. He looks at it, uncomprehending. A porcupine shouts at him, but he doesn’t hear a thing.

Finnick shakes him. He’s in the house on Lemon Avenue. He can’t hear what Finnick’s trying to tell him, so he curls up on the couch and shuts his eyes.

“She’s not dead, you complete moron,” says Jack. They’re in John Kelley’s hotel room. “Pull yourself together.”

Nick blinks through the glass. “What?”

“Judy,” Jack says, as though Nick is a particularly stupid child, “is not dead. She pulled through. They cured her of the night howler poisoning, too, but she’s technically in custody while the medics monitor her condition. We need you to act as a diversion so that we can extract her before they cart her off to _jail.”_

“But she didn’t do anything wrong,” he says blankly.

“She’s a fucking thief, Wilde, and a _Cooper;_ did you think she was completely unknown? They didn’t know her real name until she completely lost her mind and revealed herself at that party, but she’s got so many warrants out for her arrest they might as well just lock her up now and save the taxpayers unnecessary court fees. They sure won’t grant her bail, not that we could pay it with most of our accounts frozen.”

“Oh.”

“Look.” Jack leans in and gives Nick a fierce look. “She’s my sister, okay? She saved me when we were just kits starting college, and I saved her when she was recovering from her time on the streets, and we’ve been protecting each other for years. As much as I am _loath_ to admit, I get it: you love her. She loves you. I need you to get your head out from under your tail and _work_ with me, because if you don’t? The bunny you love will go away for a long time, and our chances of breaking her out of prison aren’t very high.”

“Right.” The feeling returns to Nick’s consciousness a little. Now he has an internal sensation of pins and needles. “Okay. Tell me what kind of diversion you need, and I can provide.”

Amused, Jack tells him, “I need John Kelley to charge in there and be Judy’s desperate boyfriend for a few minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a spectacularly bad job at capturing the disjointed, not-all-there, autopilot feeling you get after you lose someone you love, but, uh, at least it doesn't have to continue.


	13. The Heart Job

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we have a rescue, several happy reunions, a newscast, a podcast, an appearance from a canon character probably none of you were wondering about, and an important decision.

John Kelley rushes into the Controlled Observation Unit, lightly windswept and looking far short of a million bucks. His eyes are bloodshot, like he’s been crying off and on for two weeks. One half of his pristine white dress shirt is hanging out of his pants, while the other is neatly tucked in. In short, he looks like a fox who’s had his whole world torn apart.

Nick’s pretty proud of the uneven shirt. It’s really the little things that sell the persona.

“I just heard...please, let me see her,” he gasps. “Luna Rivera. Or...Judy Hopps, I guess she calls herself – _please-”_

“I’m sorry,” says the startled armadillo at the front desk, “who are you trying to visit?”

“Judy Hopps,” he replies, leaning forward to try and see the screen, but it’s positioned wrong. “She’s a bunny, 24 years old, night howler poisoning?”

“Right,” she says grimly, typing away. She nods once at her screen. “My apologies, but I’m not allowed to let anyone back to see her-”

“Do you know who I _am?”_

“-especially the fox ambassador she was conning.” The armadillo, whose name tag is blank because _of course_ it is, gives him a sympathetic smile. “It’s not your fault, Sir. Everybody falls for the cute routine.”

“Don’t call her _cute!”_

“Wow, she’s got you whipped already. Listen, your best bet is to forget about her, okay? Con artists, they use mammals. Forget about her, because she’s already forgotten about you.”

“Even _if_ you’re right, she only used me to make sure she could be in a position to tell the truth,” he protests. This is taking too long. Should he make a scene? It might put the real John Kelley in poor standing...but then, the real John Kelley is 80, and by the time Nick’s deception is revealed to the old tod, he _should_ be long gone. He straightens his spine and growls angrily. “I thought she was _dead._ I just need to see for myself that she’s alive, and I need to do it _now,_ and if you don’t give me the room number I’ll have to _take it_ from you.”

With a shaky, false smile, the armadillo picks up the phone and dials a short number. Internal hospital code. After a moment, she says, “I have the ambassador here. He wants to see Judy Hopps, and won’t take no for an answer. Yes, please, I’d appreciate it. No. No, he’s just sad. Yep. Thank you.” She hangs up the phone and points to a chair in the lobby of the COU. “Please sit down, Ambassador. Someone will be with you shortly.”

Nick takes his seat, hoping this works. It’s a terrible slapdash plan, not something Nick would ever put his name on if he didn’t have to, but they’re short on time. Even Jack wasn’t sure that Judy had survived, even with his finger on the pulse point of the internet, until this morning. It was only through Madge, whose friends had developed a cure with the sample that the Hoppses had brought to Judy the night Nick said goodbye to Ruth, that Jack learned Judy was not only alive, but successfully cured...and her heart was going to be okay. They have only 24 hours or so until Judy can be cleared for discharge and subsequent processing, and the sooner they retrieve her, the better.

This all hinges on what happens next. What sort of mammal Idris Bogo really is. Does he pay his debts? Is he loyal? Can he be trusted? Will they escape with Judy in tow or will there be an extra fox in holding tonight?

Oh God oh God oh God, this is a _terrible_ idea.

Bogo seems even larger in the flesh than he did on camera when he strolls over and looms threateningly, arms crossed and expression dark. “Can I _help_ you, Ambassador?”

“Yes, you can,” Nick says, all accent and pomp, because if nothing else, he’s a professional. “You have my girlfriend, who nearly _died_ trying to save me from the ills of your city, under lock and key. I want to see her. I want her freed immediately.”

“That’s not the way things work,” Bogo counters. “Judy Hopps-”

“Luna Rivera,” Nick corrects sharply.

“One of her many aliases. I’m sure there are others. She’s a thief, Ambassador, and a good one. My advice is to concern yourself less with her and more with how many of your valuables are missing.”

“None.” Nick waits a beat and frowns like only a fussy rich douchebag can. “I checked when your mammals told me what she _supposedly_ is. Luna, Judy...it’s all the same to me, Officer. Please. I just want to see her. I need to. Even if she is just a con artist, I...I want her to know I have a soft spot for her. I doubted her at first and she proved me wrong in the best of ways.”

For a moment, it seems like Bogo might deflate like a bad mattress, but he valiantly remains rigid anyway. “Do you promise to behave? Technically she hasn’t gone through processing, but it is _only_ a technicality. If I let you in, it’s to say goodbye until she’s allowed visitors in holding.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior, Officer…?”

“Bogo.”

Nick doesn’t offer his paw. Neither does the buffalo. Instead, he turns on his heel, and Nick scurries to keep up with him. At first, Nick thinks Bogo’s leading him toward the exit, but as soon as they’re out of sight of the front desk, the buffalo turns sharply and leads him down a corridor. They probably look comical, walking single-file like this, but Nick doesn’t want to risk any more attention by walking at Bogo’s side. His face is already known to certain important parties, albeit as the bat-wielding vigilante’s sidekick (and that will _never_ get old, he’ll be laughing about that for the rest of his life).

Why are they keeping Judy in the part of the hospital made for megafauna? Surely the former Chief of Police would bring up the fact that it’s easier for a small mammal to hide in, and escape, a room like – oh. _Ooooooh._ Well, isn’t that something. At least Bogo has some loyalty, however shaky it may be, to mammals who do a service to the city.

When they arrive at a large door, Bogo actually _leans down_ to say, in a low, menacing tone, “If you do any harm to my charge, I will throw the book at you, and no _“diplomatic immunity”_ will save you, _Ambassador.”_

Nick’s pretty sure Bogo knows he’s no ambassador, but he keeps the thought private, just in case. “I understand, Officer.”

“You have five minutes. Make it count.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bogo rolls his eyes at Nick’s sloppy salute and opens the door, closing it firmly behind Nick once he’s inside. Judy is sitting up, awake and alert, though she looks drained. Her left paw is shaved and she’s attached to an IV in a portable bed that looks _tiny_ next to the bed made for this particular room. Nick takes an earbud and a bandage package out of one pocket and her communicator out of the other and says, “Hey, Carrots. Long time no see.”

“It feels like hours for me,” she says, voice wobbly. She takes the earbud from him and inserts it into her ear. “Jailbreak? Sweet, I’ve always wanted to try this. When we get out of here, I’m going to hug you so hard your eyes will pop out.”

“Gross,” he replies, even though he’s definitely okay with the hugging part. “Can you manage to pull out the IV as soon as I have the bandage ready?”

“Yeah, I think so, but you’d better be quick just in case.”

Nick tears open the package and attaches the end of the stretchy medical tape to the thick pad of gauze. Contrary to what they show on TV, ripping out an IV is bloody, so they have to do this quickly and carefully. He hovers with the gauze, and asks, “Ready? Count of three. One...two...three.”

Judy removes the needle at the right angle and Nick goes for the tiny hole, making sure to bandage her wrist firmly but not too tightly. She grins up at him. “We make quite a team.”

“And speaking of,” he says, “we have to go. We only have about three and a half minutes to get out of the building.”

“Air vents?”

“Exactly. Put on your glasses while I unscrew the vent.”

Fortunately, in this part of the hospital, the air vent is low to the ground, so Nick can easily unscrew the grate with a coin. As soon as he does so, Judy is behind him, ready but swaying a little on her feet. He steadies her and allows her in first, knowing that Jack is ready to go with a map and instructions for them. Sure enough, his voice rings in Nick’s ear. “Okay, you two, we need you to take the first left. It’s going to lead you to a supply closet. Kick open the grate and I’ll tell you where to go from there.”

Nick follows Judy, crawling through the oversized duct and trying very hard not to look directly at Judy, who’s only wearing the flimsy hospital gown that is only barely tied onto her body. The duct itself is dusty and kind of gross, but it’s the only way to escape. When they reach the grate, Judy says, “I don’t know if I’m strong enough to kick it open, but-”

“Don’t worry, there’s only one screw. Top left. I sneaked in and removed the others last night.”

 _“You_ did field work!?”

“Barely,” Jack says dryly, “now _go.”_

The grate comes open easily, though it does stay attached on the upper left corner. Nick follows Judy out and helps her adjust the hospital gown. They have clothes for her in the van just outside, but they have to _get_ there first. Nick asks, “Where to next?”

“I’ve got the cameras. Nick, you’ll have to jump to open the door, but this hallway’s pretty empty, so if you hurry you can make it. Judy, open up one of those wheelchairs and get in it. This next part requires running and I don’t want you passing out or worsening your condition.”

“Got it,” Judy says. Nick hears the sounds of a wheelchair opening while he jumps for the handle. On his second try, he gets it firmly enough to pull it down, and the door opens. Judy sits in the chair and Nick grabs the handles, pushing her out of the door. This next part will be the hardest; they need to run and _not get caught_ running.

“Left down the hall,” Jack says. Nick follows Jack’s directions and begins to run, but stops short when Jack adds, “Staff incoming. Pretend you’re just passing through.”

The deer in scrubs doesn’t so much as look in their direction as she passes, and once she’s a safe distance away, Nick runs the rest of the way to the huge window at the end of the hall. Finnick and Jack have come through on their end; it’s propped open with two pieces of rebar. Nick jumps up onto the sill and helps Judy onto it, then he jumps down, offering his arms. “Come on, I’ll catch you. Don’t jump, just fall.”

She’s so light in his arms it’s ridiculous. They don’t have much of a wait; Finnick’s old van pulls up next to them and Nick carries Judy into it. As soon as the door is closed, Finnick pulls out quickly. Judy looks at Jack and Finnick and bursts out laughing. “What are you _wearing?”_

“Same thing you and Nick will be wearing in a minute,” Jack says, gesturing to the pile of clothes in the back. “Get dressed, we’re about to arrive.”

Judy doesn’t question it, and instead, pulls on some clean undergarments and her uniform before making a weird face at the final item. Nick puts his on, and – without even bothering to turn off the engine once the van is in park – Jack and Finnick join them, pulling up their hoods. They all exit through the back doors, Nick holding tightly to Judy’s paw, and join the throng outside City Hall.

Everyone here is wearing black hoodies with the slogan “COLLAR-FREE” printed on them. The team fits in here with their hoods pulled up. It’s no accident that a large group of mammals are protesting outside City Hall; Jack organized it, after all, and paid Bucky and Pronk in _diamonds_ to manufacture the hoodies and promote the event on their podcast. It’s a good cause in any case, but it’s especially useful as cover for an escape. On the other side of the crowd, another van is waiting: Jack’s black van with the ABI logo slapped on the sliding door. Inside it is everything they deemed useful enough to bring along, including the contents of Sly Cooper’s bedroom safe: red shock pistol, the longer hooked cane, two wrapped presents with Judy’s name on them, and an old photo of a raccoon and a vixen. The vixen is wearing a tiny yellow dress and holding a rose; the raccoon is dressed in plain black pants and a blue shirt and hat, wearing a scarf that matches the vixen’s dress, kissing her cheek while she looks stunned. It’s _adorable._ And it’s the only photo in existence that has Judy’s parents in the same frame.

Judy picks it up reverently. Her eyes well up as Jack starts the engine, and by the time they’re on the road, she’s crying quietly but freely. “We’re not going home, are we?”

“No,” Nick affirms, and scoops her into his lap, hugging her to his chest. “Our part in this is over. There’s nothing left for us here.”

She hides her face in his sweatshirt and says, “I’m so sorry, Nick. I tried to get out of the way. I _tried._ I just wasn’t fast enough.”

“I’m not mad,” he says, and he doesn’t think that’s a lie. “You’re not doing any jobs for a while, though. Not until you’re recovered and you _promise_ to stop throwing yourself into danger. I’ll sit on you if I have to.”

“No, you’re right. I’ve been stupid. I’ve been trying so hard to live up to my family legacy that I forgot the most important thing.”

“Which is…?”

“There is no legacy if there’s nobody left to continue it.” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “You say you’re not mad, but...do you forgive me? For scaring you? For almost dying? I want to make it up to you. I’ll do anything.”

He grins and kisses the top of her head, just because. “You can make it up to me by explaining to my mother why the news has been saying for the past two weeks that her _daughter-in-law_ died exposing a conspiracy.”

“...Oh,” she says guiltily. “I, uh...I’ll call her as soon as I have a phone.”

“No need,” Finnick comments, turning around to look at them with a sharp, wicked smile. “We’re headed to Bunnyburrow. You get to tell her muzzle-to-muzzle.”

 _“...Oh,”_ she says again, and Nick can’t hold in his laughter. He doesn’t know if she’ll be okay. He’s not sure _they’re_ okay, if he’s honest. Once the sheer joy at getting her back wears off, he might _be_ mad. He understands that she did what she thought was right without enough time to consider the potential problems. He’s not sure he wouldn’t have made that decision, were he in her footprints. But that overwhelming sense of loss is still there under the joy. He thought she was _dead_ for two whole weeks, two weeks in which he was absent from his own mind, running on autopilot, having conversations he’ll probably never remember with mammals whose faces he can’t picture. For now, he’ll just hold her close and be glad she’s alive.

* * *

There was a harrowing moment between leaving City Hall and getting out of the city itself in which Nick really thought they were going to be caught, but the hole in the fence near Happytown was unpatrolled, and they got out cleanly, driving the speed limit so they wouldn’t draw suspicion. After half an hour, Jack stopped the van and peeled off the logo, but then they continued without any problems.

Somewhere between the middle of nowhere and Bunnyburrow, which is only slightly less “middle of nowhere” than the actual middle of nowhere, Nick put the seatbelt on and fell asleep with Judy leaning against his chest. He does wake up, though, when the van rolls to a gentle stop. It’s dark, so Nick almost thinks it’s nighttime, until he realizes they’re in a barn. Ah. That makes sense; a slick black van would stand out too much to the locals and anyone who might be passing through.

Good thing the official story is that Judy’s parents think she’s dead and Judy thinks Bonnie and Stu hate her. It’s unlikely that anyone will look for her here, but that’s not a certainty for long.

He shakes Judy gently as he pulls the seatbelt off them both. She presses into him, seeming to stretch slightly, before opening her eyes and murmuring, “We’re here already?”

“You conked out before we even got out of Zootopia,” he replies.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You need sleep. You shouldn’t even be out of the hospital yet, but we were afraid you’d be moved before we could get to you if we waited.”

She smiles sleepily. “I have the best team in the world.”

She’s not wrong. Finnick was willing to rush in with his baseball bat and crack some knees and skulls, and Jack is alarmingly good at aiming that shock pistol. It’s a little crazy to think that just a few months ago, he and Judy competed for the opal that changed everything. Of course, Nick planned to double-cross her and he’s positive that double-crossing _him_ was part of her initial plan...but they’re a team now. A family, even.

They’re a _pack._ He’s accidentally gotten what he always wanted in the younger Coopers, and he can’t regret it, even after everything that’s happened. Ruth is safe, Finnick is less angry, and Nick can feel things again. That’s probably why he shut down after losing Judy, actually: too much feeling all at once after six years of emotions so shallow they might as well have not existed.

Jack and Finnick grab all the packs of essentials while Nick helps Judy out of the van. Most of their belongings will stay in the van, just in case they have to make a quick getaway, but they need clothes and care items and such. Nick sniffs the air and smiles. If his nose isn’t steering him wrong, Ruth and Bonnie and Stu are just outside the door waiting for them to emerge.

“Oh, _Judy,”_ Stu says almost immediately. He rushes them, but stops abruptly before he can give Nick and Judy a very awkward hug. “I...we...you _died again._ How do you keep coming back to life?”

“I’m un-put-downable,” she replies sleepily, and then gives him a soft look. “Can I have a hug?”

Nick leaves Judy to be supported by Bonnie and Stu while he turns to his own mother, who has _that_ frown on her face again. How did he not see, in 32 years of knowing her, that it’s the frown she wears when she’s scared? He’s vaguely embarrassed by his own short-sightedness. He wraps his arms around her gently and tells her, “I’m sorry, Mom. I made so many mistakes.”

“You’re too good,” she replies, rubbing the side of her muzzle against his neck. Scent-marking him, like he’s a kit. He doesn’t mind. “You make mistakes because your heart’s too good. I tried to train you out of it. A good heart is a weakness. You’re so much like your father, Nick; he’d be proud of you. So proud he would cry.”

“And you? Are you proud of me?”

That’s not a question he ever thought he’d ask. He’s gone two decades without caring about her opinion of him. Knowing what he knows now, understanding that Ruth just wanted him to be safe, he finds that he _does_ care what she thinks. He wants to make her proud. They’re alike enough that they’ll probably always argue, and Nick’s enough like John that she’s probably always going to get small bittersweet reminders of her dead husband, but she’s hugging him like a mother who hasn’t seen her son in far too long.

Really, that’s the truth. Nick remembers what passion feels like, what optimism feels like. It’s scary and dangerous, but suppressing it made him less of who he was for a long, _long_ time. But he’s back now.

“I was proud of you before. I just knew you didn’t want that from me. I will _always_ be proud of my son, the survivor. My son, the hero. I’ll be cross with you later for letting our bunny get poisoned, but only after I’m done being glad you’re alive.”

“There’s no _letting_ Judy do anything,” he jokes, squeezing her a little tighter. “She’s going to do what she wants, and if you get in her way, she’ll just squash you flat. Have you been okay? I mean...do you like it here in Bunnyburrow?”

“I like it a lot more now that my four little children are here, but yes. It’s nice. Not quiet, but there are some kits who like listening to my stories, and that Gideon fellow brought a blueberry crumble that was perfect.”

“Good. I’m glad you’re doing well.”

Ruth doesn’t say anything. Nick doesn’t either. Instead, he listens to Judy make introductions and hugs his mother as she cries in relief. He won’t mention it later, and he turns slightly to give her some privacy. It was Ruth who first told him never to let anyone see that they got to him, after all.

When the Hoppses have said their greetings and hugged each other a few times, Ruth breaks off the hug and rounds on Judy, managing a stern expression even though she still has tears in the corners of her eyes. Although Ruth can’t see it, Judy shrinks back a little. “H-hi, Ruth.”

“Oh, yes, _hi,_ Ruth.” His mother huffs. “What did you think you were _doing?_ They said you died!”

“I was thinking about perception,” Judy says bluntly. “I thought I could push Nick out of the way and get out of the way myself, but I was too slow. The heart attack was a surprise; I thought I’d just go savage if I happened to get darted. But I guess my heart problem was worse than I thought.”

 _And your drug problem,_ Nick thinks, slightly uncharitably. Chronic pain isn’t a joke, but she wouldn’t need narcotics if she hadn’t pushed herself far beyond her limits for so long, and she wouldn’t need so much caffeine if she didn’t take narcotics. At least she’s not going through withdrawals, and she doesn’t have a prescription.

“You...pushed Nick out of the way?”

“Yeah, I saw that he was about to get shot with Night Howler extract. I couldn’t let that happen to him. I didn’t get shot on purpose, but I figured...better a bunny than a fox, for political reasons and for damage control. I knew what I was risking, even though I hoped I could avoid it. I didn’t mean to make you worry, _any_ of you, and I’m so sorry that I did.”

“You’re so brave,” Bonnie tells her, stroking her cheek. Stu just bursts into tears. What is it with parents and crying? Is it a generational thing? He supposes it could be an actual parenting thing. They say you don’t know real love until you have a child, and Nick personally thinks that’s ridiculous, but he can believe there’s a specific _kind_ of love you can only feel for a child. A specific kind of bond that you form in their youth. He’ll never know either way. He just hopes nobody can tell how uncomfortable it’s making him, because according to most mammals, crying provides catharsis in bad situations.

“And stupid,” Ruth adds with a little sniff. “But...even so, I should thank you. They would have hurt him. Maybe even killed him.”

“Judy’s the bravest mammal I know,” says Jack.

“Bravery is just idiocy spelled wrong,” says Finnick, “but Judy makes it work.”

“And so does Nick.” Bonnie moves closer and hugs Nick, too. It’s weird, but not unpleasant. “Thank you for taking care of my girl.”

This is way too mushy for him, but it kind of feels nice to be accepted so readily by Judy’s parents. He’ll probably never meet Sly Cooper or Carmelita Montoya, but these are the bunnies who raised the mammal he loves, and that means an awful lot.

* * *

After a delicious meal of farm-fresh veggies, a good night’s sleep on a plump inflatable mattress, more home-grown food for brunch, and a long nap curled around Judy, Nick feels a thousand times better, and Judy _looks_ better. Sitting on a loveseat with Judy tucked into his side, he waits for the evening news to get back from commercials. It’s probably going to be the same news about Dawn Bellwether and the Night Howler conspiracy, but they’re on the lookout for any story about Judy’s escape from the hospital.

“We’re back with an important update,” says Peter Moosebridge into the camera with a grim smile. “As the search for the truth about the terrorist acts committed by Dawn Bellwether and possible collusion from Pawlee Gooseberry continues, an old, familiar face has stepped in as interim Mayor. Most of you will remember Leodore Lionheart, the former Mayor of Zootopia, who retreated into isolation when the quarantine began. We’ve got him on the phone with us now. Mayor Lionheart, can you still hear me?”

“Yes, Peter, I can,” replies the enthusiastic-yet-gruff voice of the former Mayor. Nick remembers voting for him and being upset when he lost.

“I’ve heard rumors that _you_ were the one responsible for the illegal network of unfiled reports of police brutality and other various crimes that the ZPD covered up under Wallace Spottson’s leadership. Is there any truth to that?”

“Yes, it’s true.” Lionheart doesn’t sound very sorry, but Nick supposes he wouldn’t be either. After all, the network is proving invaluable to federal investigators. “I know, it was illegal to keep those reports under wraps, but those kinds of reports tended to disappear and get covered up. Really it was a _classic_ case of doing the wrong thing for the right reason, and now we have plenty of evidence of the kind of corruption that plagued our city for so long.”

Beside Peter Moosebridge’s head, a clip plays of an uncollared Lionheart unlocking the collar of a young bear at the front of a line of predators. It’s obviously a staged ceremony to make Lionheart look good, but it’s still great to see. Another clip plays, this one of Officer Bogo escorting a pair of sheep out of the ZPD’s Precinct 1 and into an ABI car. The anchor says, “As you can see, there is a lot of good work being done as the situation becomes clearer. Mayor Lionheart, your efforts are appreciated by every predator in Zootopia...according to my dear friend Fabienne Growley, who may not technically be with ZNN, but is still reporting. Currently her interest is in the Mammal Inclusion Initiative, informally called the Mammal Exclusion Initiative by opponents, and whether or not it will continue to be a legal ordinance now that Zootopia is becoming part of Animalia once more…”

Stu flicks the remote and the television goes mute.

“I had no idea Leo was behind that one,” Judy muses, leaning her head against Nick’s shoulder. “Nobody knew.”

“Even _I_ didn’t know, and I had eyes everywhere,” Jack admits with a nod. “How much do you want to bet he was funding Haven as well?”

“I wouldn’t bet anything; I’m sure you’re right,” Finnick comments.

Nick listens with half an ear as Judy, Jack, Finnick, Bonnie, Stu, and Ruth speculate on the depth of Lionheart’s involvement and financial contribution to the cause, but his eyes are on the banner underneath Moosebridge.

REPARATIONS APPROVED FOR COLLARED PREDATORS: free insurance, education, and payments of-

They did it.

They _actually_ did it.

Nick never thought they’d take the suggestion. More than anything, Nick’s spiel to Senator Grove was supposed to establish Nick as a politician. No bill has _ever_ passed this fast before. It can’t have been brought before Congress yet. The only explanation is that this is an executive order from the President herself, which means that Nick and Lillian Brown, that crafty Tasmammalian hare, effectively _blackmailed the Animalian government._

His smile grows so wide he thinks his lips might split. What other grifter can say that? What other grifter can even come close?

“Of course his plan worked, Nick’s brilliant,” Judy says, and Nick pulls himself back into the real world. His chest warms at her flattering words. “I mean, half the stuff we did shouldn’t have worked, but he knew it would, and he had faith in us to do our parts.”

“From what I hear, your...uh... _unique_ skill set helped a lot as well,” Bonnie says, sounding slightly uncomfortable. Ruth probably told them exactly what Judy got up to in Zootopia as a sort of test of character.

“We’re all good at what we do,” Judy acknowledges. “We’re a very diverse and talented group.”

“You could probably do anything with your life now,” Stu says thoughtfully. A little reluctantly, too, if his tone is anything to go by. “You could probably become a police officer, if that’s...something you’re still interested in.”

“Not in Zootopia,” Judy says darkly. “I was interested in INTERPOL, back when Mom – I mean Carmelita – um. Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Bonnie tells her from her place next to Ruth, who’s got a kit sleeping on her chest. “I’m glad you found someone while you were so isolated. No bunny should have no family. It’s not healthy.”

“Oh! Speaking of Carmelita and family,” Jack says suddenly, “you need to open your presents.”

“Presents?”

“Don’t you remember what we were doing when the gang disappeared?”

Judy’s whole body scrunches a bit and Nick hugs her close. She turns her face to hide in the folds of his shirt. “Yes.”

“Nobody else knows,” Finnick chides. Huh. Interesting. Being freed from his collar has had positive effects on Finnick’s attitude.

Jack jumps up and tells the story while retrieving the two gifts from the bucket below the coat tree. “It was Judy’s birthday. I tried to make a cake, but I can’t bake, so Mr. Cooper decided it was best to just go buy one. They all went out – the Inspector because she wanted to judge the quality of the cake rather than how cool it looked, Mr. Chomps because they needed him to carry a cake that was big enough for him to have some, and Bentley because if you didn’t force him to get fresh air every so often, he’d never go outside. And they just...never came back. Here, Judy.”

She looks at the wrapped gifts, an almost confused expression on her face. “I didn’t know there were presents.”

“They were in the safe you never wanted to open.”

“Oh.” She begins unwrapping the bigger box and smiles at the contents: a pair of police-standard pawcuffs and a smaller shock pistol than the one they got from the safe in the master bedroom. She picks up the note and smiles wistfully. “Judy, I hope that you can one day put your training to a more legal use and achieve your dream. Love, Mom.”

“Oh, that’s so _sweet,”_ Stu enthuses. How Judy’s birth parents are being so cool with Judy having a completely different set of parents, Nick has no idea, but it’s nice to see.

Judy puts that box to the side and opens the other one. Inside is a large collection of what Nick first thinks are Cooper cards, until he realizes the shape is more bunny than raccoon. Judy picks up the card and begins, “Judy, I know-”

Her voice cracks and she drops the card, rubbing her eyes harshly. Taking pity on her, Nick picks up the card and finishes, “I know I’ve said it before, but I need you to always remember that you’re a Cooper. You might not be a Cooper by blood, but I’ve watched you grow into one, and that’s as good as being born into the clan. Maybe even better, because you earned the name. I’m so proud of you. I’ll always be proud of you, even if you lose your mind and follow your mother into law enforcement. We’re both lucky to be able to call you family. Thanks for trying to pick my pocket. Love, Dad.”

There’s a hush while Judy gets hold of herself. Nick doesn’t have any words. Judy takes the Cooper legacy so seriously that she was willing to die for it. If nothing else, these notes will give her some closure. It strikes him, suddenly, that this may also function as permission: she doesn’t have to be a thief to live up to the family name. With some fancy footwork and maybe a few favors from outside parties, she could even work in law enforcement like she wanted to as a kit. Nick likes their job; he’s comfortable as a grifter, and he loves watching her move when she’s stealing things. If she follows in Carmelita Montoya’s footsteps and joins INTERPOL…

She’ll need a partner, probably. He hopes it doesn’t come to that. Nick really doesn’t want to become a _cop._

“So,” Bonnie says loudly, probably in an attempt to break the awkward tension, “what are your plans, you four? I know you want to stay here, Ruth, and we’re happy to have you, but do you young ones want to hang around here too?”

“Whatever we do, we’ll have to stay together,” Jack says, surprising Nick. He’s so crusty Nick half-expected him to slip away in the night once Judy was safely in bed.

“I’m ruined for any other team,” Finnick agrees, “and I’m not ecstatic about trying to go it alone now that I know what it’s like to have a real family.”

Nick nods. “That’s about where I am, too. Whatever comes next, we do as a team.”

Bonnie looks at Judy expectantly. “And you, Judy, after you’re all healed up? Now that you can do anything, what do you _want_ to do?”

Judy looks at each of them in turn, lingering on Stu and Ruth and coming to rest on Nick. Her eyes mist over a little, but her smile is like the sun, and Nick has never wanted anything more than to capture this moment and store it for a rainy day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to post the epilogue in a day or two, but I want it to stand on its own with no notes, so I'm putting my closing statements here.
> 
> In writing this, I learned a lot about writing, far more than I learned in my college English classes (both of which I aced, largely because the critiques and enthusiasm from y'all gave me confidence in my previously-nonexistent writing "skills"). I learned how to carry a literary tune, how to choose and practice themes, how to accept criticism, how to tell what is valid feedback and what is just somebody getting mad that the kind of story you write isn't the kind of story they like, and a lot about my boundaries as a storyteller. Every time I got something horribly wrong, I could count on you guys to point it out and give me a chance to fix it. Every time I made a terrible joke that nobody got, I moved it from my "accessible humor" pile to my "obscure humor" pile and didn't pursue it again. I started this story as a parody of collar AU's, but it took on a life of its own because I took your feedback. I mean, I still hate collar AU's, but after having written one myself, I can understand the appeal of dystopian themes; the real world usually sucks in every shade of gray, and it feels good to thwart obviously evil corrupt governments, even if it’s only in a silly fanfiction story.
> 
> Looking back on my writing history, I think the change in style is obvious. I have come to love writing as much as I love my job, and I think it probably shows. I'm much more grounded in my preferences and consistent in my characterization. I know how to joke about tropes without smacking people upside the head with them, so when I do smack you upside the head, it's a deliberate stylistic choice rather than my only option. To everyone who's reading this, whether you're an anonymous lurker or someone I've emailed or Skyped with, I want to extend a sincere thanks for being here. Even if you only hate-read this story, it warms my heart to see that hit count go a little higher each time I post a chapter. If you hate-read this, you felt something, and that's the point of art, isn't it? To make your audience feel something.
> 
> Next, I'll be finishing Justice League of Zootopia and its sequel in my lawyers AU. I'll probably continue adding to my Ruff Stuff series and I've got a little thing to link to Freefall. There are plenty of half-written things in my Google Drive that could be developed, if I so chose, including a pretty robust WildeHopps role-switch AU I started working on in November(ish) that takes place 24 years after Jack Savage, first bunny cop, went to prison for masterminding the Night Howler Crisis (not to mention killing his wife and partner on the force), and Dawn Bellwether united Zootopia in the wake of the insidious plot...or so the history books say, but good luck finding any bunnies within city limits to ask for their side of the story. I won't leave anything that I've posted unfinished, but what's next after I do finish everything, I can't say. I've done some Sly Cooper stuff and a few stories in the Titanic category, but maybe I'll move on from fanfiction and try my hand at like journalism or an original novel or something. I'm 32 years old and the future is wide open. Thanks for sticking with me on this crazy journey, in any case.


	14. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang start their new lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Big Damn Heroes, the Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLFsMzmYsLKfOBQLoBMVsXdRcsAyLGoe3b)

Nick speaks decent French and Judy is fluent, so navigating Paris isn’t as difficult as it could be. Grocery shopping is a little weird, but it’s not like he expected anything else, and they’re not actually here for the food. It took two careful years, lots of hiding, and complaining about inactivity on Judy’s part, but Nick feels pretty confident about their plan. Europe is a good place to start over, and Madge – finally halfway through her residency, after all those years of waiting – has said Judy’s recovery is stable. Her young age helped a lot. As long as she remembers to eat properly, she takes her medication, and she doesn’t wear herself out like she did before, official word is that she’s good to go.

Another bonus of staying in Bunnyburrow so long is that Nick now knows more about computers than he ever thought was necessary, due to prolonged exposure to Jack. It probably will never come in handy, but what’s the downside to accumulating more knowledge anyway?

“I'm on my way in,” Judy says through the comm, her voice a blessed distraction from the mind-numbing conversation with Director Michaud. The wolf is a bit vain, having dyed all of his fur a bright blue color, but he’s also been a highly useful contact since Nick showed up and declared interest in INTERPOL, and he speaks English, so Finnick can speak to him too. If all goes well, they’ll be leaving with more than just badges tonight.

He imagines Judy, tucked into that form-fitting outfit of hers, sneaking around corners and sliding into small spaces, and grins. Michaud grins back. It feels _good_ to be allowed to show teeth without worrying about getting arrested. It feels good to feel good without worrying about getting shocked. The fur around his neck might never grow the way it should, but all things considered, the collar could have done much worse. It could have killed him.

“I have to admit,” Nick tells Michaud now that he knows Judy’s general location, “I haven’t been completely honest with you. I do have an ulterior motive tonight. My name is Nicholas Montoya, and I'm here about my mother.”

“Montoya. That is a name I haven't heard in years,” Michaud replies, scratching his chin. “Old Ironsides was your mother?”

“Well, I didn’t know she was called  _Old Ironsides.”_

Judy snorts quietly, but the earbud is sensitive enough to pick it up. Nick ignores it and the subsequent grunts that probably mean she’s pulling herself up onto a ledge or something. Michaud, unaware of any schemes, simply shrugs. “I'm afraid she wasn't anyone’s favorite. She put a lot of criminals away, but once she got it into her head to do something, nothing could stand in her way, and she didn't mind stepping on toes. I didn't know she had a son. We all assumed she and that scoundrel just ran away together.”

“Scoundrel? It figures my father would be a scoundrel.”

“Eh...I don’t know who your father was, lad. I'm talking about Constable Cooper.”

Nick chokes on his champagne. It’s utter swill, but that’s not why.  _“Constable_ Cooper? I thought that, uh, that mammal was a thief.”

“Oh, he was. A cad, really. He played the long con with Inspector Montoya.”

“Really? I did wonder why I never met the guy who took up so much of her thoughtspace.”

Michaud laughs loudly from his belly. It’s a nice laugh. Nick  _almost_ feels bad about what they’re planning. “Ooh, this  _is_ a story. Cooper seduced her with a head injury and amnesia...according to the ‘76 UMN redefinition of “cruel and unusual,” we couldn’t charge him with crimes he couldn’t remember committing, but we couldn’t let him loose, so we allowed him a place with INTERPOL where she could keep an eye on him. It wasn’t long before one eye became a whole body, if you catch my meaning. For eight years, he did phenomenal work for us, but a thief is a thief, and he couldn’t resist another heist once he regained his memory. It made your mother hopping mad. She chased that raccoon for  _years._ When did you say you were born?”

“It was a bit of a scandal,” Nick lies, thinning his smile just a tad. “I was born in ‘84. She would have been 17. I always assumed my parents were dead, but then I learned the great Carmelita Montoya was an INTERPOL officer. I tracked her to Zootopia...just before the walls went up.”

“Oh. Nasty business, wasn’t it? You must be the reason she never came back.”

Nick’s smile disappears entirely. “She never came back because she was collared, Inspector, along with the rest of us. She was killed by the cops for being in the general area when a robbery happened. I watched it happen.”

It’s as good an explanation as any, considering they don’t know – and might never know – what happened to the old Cooper crew. They’re either dead or lost to the old system, and considering the careful retrials of every mammal put away during the six years of isolation, Nick’s team is pretty sure it’s the first rather than the second.

“You’ll want to take your second left,” Jack says through the earbud. “The first one will be a dead end, and we don’t want you to get caught.”

“Acknowledged,” Judy replies.

In Nick’s part of HQ, Michaud’s smile drops as well as he says, “I’m sorry to hear that. Montoya may not have been anyone’s favorite, but she was a damn good officer. At least you got to meet her before she met a nasty end.”

“Yeah...she was pretty amazing.” Nick thinks of his own mother, and how nice it was to finally meet the mammal she hid inside for so long. He had two years to get to know her, to hear the  _real_ stories about his father – not the idealized ones, but the sad ones too, the months of trouble getting a loan for his shop, the battle with thrill-seeking tendencies, the way he’d come home with scrapes and bruises after getting in fights for extra money – and he understands better now why she tried to hard to protect Nick, to foster cynicism in him.

He is  _very much_ like his father. She knew, even when he was a kit, that his curiosity and childish optimism would get him into the exact kind of trouble he got from the Junior Ranger Scouts. When all is said and done, she and Judy’s parents have a lot in common, which is probably why they get along so well. But Nick and Judy aren’t the type to settle, and that’s okay. There’s space in the world for mammals like them.

Jack’s voice sounds in Nick’s ear again. “Okay, see that red door? Pick the lock and go inside, but close it afterward. We don’t want anyone to catch you.”

“Lock it and put a chair under the handle too,” Finnick puts in. “Better over-prepared than under.”

“Mom taught me to do what’s right, even if it’s not what’s easy,” Nick tells Michaud, just to keep the conversation going. The Officers’ Ball is in full swing, the usually-drab lobby decked in gold and deep blue, everyone in fancy dress and mildly intoxicated, but Nick would rather keep the director occupied than let him possibly remember something that needs to be done in his office. “I don’t know if that’s an INTERPOL thing or just a Montoya thing.”

“A little of both, I suppose. Our function is to help uphold the law and chase international criminals, but your mother – as black-and-white is she could be – pursued  _justice_ as an ideal, even if it meant working with unsavory characters. Mercenaries.  _Cooper._ I suppose you share that ideal?”

“I guess. I didn’t know her for very long. It’s hard to pick up values from someone who didn’t raise you, but I don’t fault her for giving me up. Seventeen is too young to raise a kit with no support.”

“There’s a hidden panel,” Jack tells Judy. “The old safe is in there. That’s where you’ll find what we’re looking for.”

“Ugh,  _clich_ _é,”_ Judy complains, but it sounds good-natured.

Finnick snorts. “Effective, though. Even Michaud doesn’t know it’s there.”

“Then how do  _you_ know about it?”

“Before you came to live with us, I asked Inspector Montoya about the kind of traps she used on Mr. Cooper,” Jack tells her. “She used a bait file when this was her office.”

“Is your interest in INTERPOL familial, or are you interested for personal reasons,” asks Michaud.

“A little of both,” Nick echoes with a faint smile. Wistful. Determined. He’s really good at selling a persona. One day he might be good at selling the truth, too.

“Okay, everybody shush, I have to listen to the lock,” Judy says.

“There might be a place for you, with the right training,” Michaud informs Nick. “After a background check, of course.”

As quietly as he can while still not breaking character, Nick answers, “Of course. Do you have a list of qualifications?”

“Our website has that information.”

Nick pulls out his phone and asks, “Is it just the main INTERPOL site?”

“Yes, it is.”

He makes a show of pulling up the site slowly, feigning the beginnings of intoxication, listening for Judy’s cue. Soon enough, she makes a small triumphant noise. “Got it! Okay, I’m headed out the window. Once I’ve slid down the waterspout, I’ll jump in the van. Nick, we’ll pick you up at the rendezvous.”

Nick wrinkles his forehead and tells Michaud, “This is perfect. I’ll make sure to read through it carefully when I get home. And speaking of home, I should turn in. I’ve got an early morning shift.”

“It was good of you to come, in any case,” Michaud says amicably. “Let me know if you become serious about joining INTERPOL. Old Ironsides ought to have a legacy.”

“Yes, I agree,” Nick replies, thinking of his improved accuracy with her shock pistol and Judy’s unwavering belief in doing the right thing. “Have a good night, Director Michaud.”

“And you, Nicholas.”

Nick wanders out of INTERPOL HQ in character, smiling vacantly at the attendees he doesn’t know and pushing open the door with a lack of hurry that is very deliberate. He’s just a mammal who’s turning in early. And that’s what he is until he reaches a shadowy corner just down the street, where the team van stops to let him in.

Judy’s still clutching the thick stack of files that have two name tags on top. They, along with the standard-issue badges, will stand up to scrutiny once Jack works his magic, which is a better plan than simply running if they get spotted by local law enforcement. One says MONTOYA and the other says COOPER.

“So what  _did_ you steal,” Nick asks curiously. His part was to infiltrate INTERPOL, but Judy kept some information back as a birthday surprise for Nick.

“Mom’s old case files. Some of them have probably been caught already, but the rest?” Judy smiles proudly. It's infectious. “As a Cooper, I’m basically honor-bound to only steal from bad mammals. Good thing there are still  _lots_ of bad mammals out there. Together, we four are going to help make the world a better place.”


End file.
